


It's Sex With Feelings

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Cock Sucking, Come, M/M, Porn, Porn With Plot, arse fucking, doing a '69', sex in public places
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-02 22:58:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12736032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: Learning about sex, learning about love





	1. It's Sex- Greg and Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> This is very hardcore sex.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I deleted by accident my first write of this that was completed in May 2017. This is a total rewrite.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Sex and more sex. At least chapter one through four.  
> I originally had two character deaths, but on the re-write, one spoke loudly and said "no."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Sherlock get it on, in various ways and places. Hardcore porn.  
> Sherlock meets John.

I've finished checking out a crime scene at a local restaurant. The owner was shot in the head, and it was a simple enough solution. One of the former employees was the killer. My men have found the perpetrator and are bringing him into the station at this moment. He confesses while in the car. He didn't get the raise he wanted because his boss felt he was a slacker. 

* * *

I have my car at the scene and leave it parked and walk down the street to have a sandwich for dinner.

* * *

Hunger satiated, I'm heading to my car when I hear scuffling sounds in the alley before me and a person whimpering and groaning. I know those sounds well enough. Someone's being attacked. Pulling my gun out, moving into the alleyway, "Stop, this is the police. I've got a gun Don't move." 

* * *

Running and yelling they're off down into the dark. I'd prefer not to chase them considering I have no backup men available. I perceive, in the dark alley, a man lying on the ground and slowly move to him, gun still out.

* * *

He's on his back, face bruised, moaning. Bending down I see a youngish man, and taking his vitals I smell the fragrant odor of cocaine, and from the looks of him, he's overdosed. He's still breathing, but barely. 

* * *

Without a thought I pick him up, carrying him into the back seat of my car, tearing off into the night to the emergency room of Bart's Hospital.

* * *

Once situated in a room, the needed IV's in him, I check his pockets for some identification. His mobile phone is on him. Name is Sherlock Holmes, and I see a Mycroft Holmes listed.

          "I'll be there shortly."

He hangs up before I can say more.

* * *

Back in the room the doctor has finished examining him and tells me there's no significant damage to flesh or bone, other than the overdose, and he'll come out fine.

* * *

I brush back his stiff, unruly curls to find a face like an angel. Very pale, sharp cheekbones probably due to malnourishment, bow-like lips. About twenty-four or so. Why would such a good-looking, young man be on cocaine? I'm immediately drawn to him.

* * *

Within ten minutes a man enters the room. A very imposing man. Stiff, three-piece bespoke suit, carrying an umbrella.

          "Inspector Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlocks brother."

I put out my hand to have him shake it, but he ignores me and goes straight to the bed.

Turning to face me, "I've entered him into two detox programs on two separate occasions, and he's left each one before the end of treatment. I've kept him under scrutiny at my home, and this is the second time he's run off--and I-"

It sounds like he's at his wit's end, and he's now cognizant of the fact that he's just spilled his heart to a stranger.

* * *

I have an idea and voice it to this man. He looks astonished at my proposal.

* * *

          " I'm newly divorced and have a two-bedroom apartment. My girls' visits are not sleep-overs. I'd like to have your brother stay with me. I know you don't know who-."

He stops me with a wave of his hand.

          "I've already checked you out, Inspector Gregory Lestrade. If you can make a difference, I would appreciate it. Whatever expenses you incur will be assumed by me. I'll keep in touch with his doctor and you, of course."

And with a swing of his umbrella he's out of the room.

* * *

I call my office and let them know I'll be in and out of the bureau for a few days, and then proceed home for a good nights sleep.

The specter of this man's face haunts me. Something about him, this almost otherworldly air about him.

* * *

Into the hospital in the morning the nurse informs me that Mr. Holmes is awake but groggy. He's refused breakfast.

* * *

In the room, Sherlock sits slightly upright, pillows behind his back.

          "Ah, the police. And I rate an Inspector. Newly divorced. Wife was continually having an affair with, a married man."

"How would you know all of that? Never mind. That's not important right now. Mr. Holmes, I'm Inspector Lestrade, and I'm not here to interrogate you. I'm here to help."

He snorts and turns away, arms folded, closed off. Again that face captures me.

          "My brother sent you, didn't he? "

Another snort. Guess he doesn't like his brother very much.

* * *

          "There are three choices I'm giving you. You can go into a rehab, or live with your brother--"

For which I get a loud harrumph before I finish. He doesn't like his brother. Wonder why? His brother certainly shows concern for him.

          "Let me finish, please. You can continue with cocaine and wind up dead. The other alternative is, come live with me."

At that his head goes up, his eyes widen with surprise. Those eyes, which I'm looking at full on are startling in their color, blue-green, no, a hazel mixture with a ton of sheer intelligence blazing though.

* * *

          "Ah, he's giving you a large sum of money to take the responsibility off him."

          "He did say he'd take care of expenses and I agreed. But that was after I proposed this. No, he's not bribing me."

I let him ponder his options as I step to the door.

          "I'll be outside in the hall if you want me. And I'm having them bring in a breakfast tray. Eat it, no arguments."

* * *

I go to the station for a conference with my staff and do a bit of research on one Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

I discover that Mycroft Holmes is a big wheel in government politics, having the ear of many of the bigwigs in and around London. His influence is wide. And when he takes command events take place right away, and I discover that any documentation on his brother and this latest incident that the hospital had written up has disappeared.

* * *

Sherlock is sitting up when I enter, the picture of discontent, but curiosity is in those eyes, piercing me.

          "What strings are attached, Inspector, if I reside with you?"

          " No drugs of any kind, including drinking and smoking," and I swipe my sleeve up to show my patch, smoking patch that is.

From this non-conversation, I understand that he'll be living by his own rules.

* * *

His diction is clear and precise, apparently went to a finishing school when younger. The deep baritone deliverance sometimes acts like a vibrating drum when it hits my stomach.

* * *

The elder Holmes has given instructions to the hospital head to release his brother, but only into my care.

* * *

After clearing him from the hospital the next stop is my apartment. Mycroft is delivering any clothes and sundries that Sherlock has had in his one-room bedsit.

* * *

My apartment is sparsely decorated having moved in three months ago. Luckily, my wife, ex-wife let me have the living room furniture. Not my style but for now the cushioned green and red flowery matching chairs and sofa will do. The master bed and the extra bed I also kept but bought new mattresses.

* * *

Sherlock stops at the entrance, takes it all in, throws his coat on the floor, takes up residence on the sofa, lying down, facing the back, withdrawing from me.

* * *

He's on his laptop, either reading or clacking away on the keys whenever I see him, not speaking to me unless I ask a question. He doesn't eat a lot and certainly doesn't cook for us. Most nights he sleeps on the sofa.

Bringing home three cold murder case folders to work on one evening, a week later, Sherlock asks to take a glimpse and solves them within an hour.

This is surprising, but with his intellect and deduction powers I now can see how to keep him occupied.

          "Would you like to accompany me on some of my calls, robberies, murders and such? You have a knack for observing the obvious which we plebeians cannot. And in such a short amount of time." 

          "It would be my pleasure, Greg," and he's bouncing off the walls with joy.

* * *

My staff does not like his abrupt manner and his inability to curb his mouth. Anything and anyone is fair game to him. I don't care as long as his deduction abilities can help my department.

* * *

Sherlock, a few months later has started to look for a place of his own to stay. I don't want him to leave, but he needs his independence.

* * *

He finds an ad in the paper and is overjoyed. A Mrs. Hudson, a woman, whom he helped once, has a two-bedroom in the heart of London. She's willing to rent, the monthly being cheap enough.

Not understanding my emotions, I have to let him go. He's conscious of my reluctance, but both of us refuse to acknowledge the why. 

          "I'll still be with you for any criminal activities you want me around for."

Sherlock moves out within a week, and I find myself alone again.

* * *

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ One evening after Greg and I have been rooting around a clothing store where a victim was found strangled; the detective appears somewhat depressed. He needs some entertainment, and I decide to ask him out to a pub for a drink. 

          "You're upset about something. Maybe imbibing in a beer or two would calm your nerves, which I see are frayed right now. Drink at a local pub? A good concept?"

          "What's gotten into you? You're not the pub type."

          "I'm willing if you are."

          "Well, maybe one-or two."

While having more than two beers, Greg becomes very vocal.

          "Here's something I bet you don't know about me. I've always enjoyed sex with men more than women. Oh, I know, I married a woman, but that was for children. And, don't get me wrong, sex was good, but it's always been a better high with men."

I can tell Greg is upset by what he's disclosed to me. Pink coloring appears on his cheeks. 

          "If that's what soothes your soul I will not pass you on the street because of it," I declare trying to minimize my friend's state of mind..

          "Have I disgusted you? Don't know what made me blurt that out like that."

          "Greg, after witnessing the horrors humans do to each other, murder and more, nothing shocks me."

* * *

          "Maybe I'm barking up the wrong tree, but here goes-punch me in the face, walk away and leave me here if I'm wrong. Would you like to be my partner?"

He's drunk. Has to be.

My hazel-green eyes pop open wide, staring at Greg, unsure, wavering back and forth. Do I or don't I? I peer back down at my drink, voice gravelly, deep, "Yes, you're a vigorous, intelligent, person. I would find the experiment quite a divergence from my normal lab observations. A minor problem though, where men are concerned Greg, I'm a virgin."

          "So you've fucked women before, not men?"

A deep sigh emanates from my throat.

          "No, women have not been my area either. Sex is not important to my needs."

* * *

Looking down at my trousers, the contemplation of an impending engagement is enough to bring my member to arousal. 

Greg is on track also by the looks of his black jeans. Both of us acutely aware of the others stimulation. Each tracking the other's gaze to our trousers and with delighted smiles, we know what we desire.

* * *

          "I guess I know your answer to my question."

Greg has a cheeky look when his hand lands on my crotch. 

          "Not here," as I maneuver around trying to get Greg's hand off. Greg mischievously continues to palm even harder. I stiffen, aware of sitting in a pub, people near enough to hear my deep breathing. I'm not attempting to change my situation as I shiver, transported by the liquor consumed and having my trousers dampen, even through my silk pants.

* * *

Without any deliberation, I place my hand over Greg's bulge. A minute later Greg lurches against the bar, and his trousers are moistened with his juices.

* * *

Both of us beaming, charged up over our undertaking. We are in this as thick and nasty as it gets.

* * *

          "Come on Sherlock, let's get out of here. We've got better things to do than drink."

Paying for our drinks we walk out-both aware of the stickiness in our trousers.

* * *

In the car, Greg, apparently feels he's okay with driving, he's not heading to either of our homes but driving aimlessly. The traffic in the heart of London has us crawling along. It's a good hour before we begin to navigate out of the hub of the city and into the quieter neighborhoods. Neither of us uttering a sound.

* * *

At a red light, Greg loosens his belt and unzips his trousers, pulling them down to his knees. I take note there is no underwear and recollect it's a new fad called going commando. His slack member is in plain sight. Greg gives me a meaningful look as if to say 'well, what about you?'

I quickly follow Greg, my black silk briefs pull down along with the trousers. 

* * *

We're in a neighboorhood with apartment buildings and single-family houses. The street lights are the only illumination besides the moon, which at the moment, is a tiny sliver in the sky. Onto one of these side streets, Greg pulls the car over to the curb, turns off the ignition. His cock in hand, he starts by pumping himself languidly, I imitate his lead. 

          "In the glove box are tissues" I open it, taking out the box, laying it on the dash. We're exercising our shafts lazily, each scrutinizing how the other is moving their hands, and I quicken my pace. Greg, aware, fists his member tighter, and faster.

Our deep moans are stimulating us even further. Within minutes each of us has our juices spread on our hands. We clean up, avoiding a direct stare at the other. Fixing ourselves into a semblance of order Greg teases, "How creative do you want to get? Would you like to do more in public?"

          "Greg, you could lose more if we're caught au-natural, after all, your job is at stake."

          "Not to worry. What do you say?"

          "I follow you. It strikes me that you're the expert on this adventure."

* * *

Before I step out of the car to my flat, Greg says, "Let's meet every Tuesday night at the same pub. Agreeable? I want to keep this a secret, not letting anyone know we meet at all." I nod yes and get out. No ties, no emotion, just plain sex.

* * *

The next Tuesday night we're again at the pub, on the bar stools, drinks on the counter, not sure how to continue. Should I take the lead or let Greg? Greg, on the other hand, gets right down to it.

He slides his hand up my thigh to the edge of the crease between my legs. His thumb travels round and round, brushing my now burgeoning bulge. I moan low and shiver. "Not yet, Sherlock, not yet. We have all evening. Just prepping you for later." That roguish face, as if challenging me to stop him, and to contain myself in the meantime.

Ordering a second drink, his fingers still stroking, still grazing my erection. A sip more and he motions for us to leave.

* * *

Greg's car is in the pub's back parking lot, where only a few cars are parked. Leaning against the car, facing away from the building, his trousers quickly down, his erection out in plain sight..

          "Quickly, put your mouth on my cock and suck me. I'm almost there right now. Hurry." 

Down on my knees, not even questioning, his cock is pushed into my mouth with his hand on the back of my head. Moaning loudly, he presses deeply into my mouth and spills.

* * *

Greg takes me to the front of the car, pushing me up on the hood. Unbuckling my belt, my zip was undone, my trousers down, shivering with the excitement. The cool night air hits like a train steaming down the rails. With my legs spread out, wide as possible with my pants around my ankles, he leans in, puts his mouth on my balls and sucks them, making me buck up. I'm groaning, trying not to produce too much noise. Sliding his tongue up my cock, his mouth over the tip and squeezes, and I come. Mostly in his mouth. 

* * *

I can't stand, my legs are weak, and I slip to the ground. Greg leans over me and pulls me up. "Sherlock, get in the car." Waddling, my trousers partially up I wearily climb into the car. Greg slams the door.

          "Really got you didn't I? Enjoyed that bit of play," he's almost out of his seat with excitement. Relishing in our performance.

          "Yes, Greg," still weak from the afterglow.

          "I imagine you normally wank yourself off. Do you watch porn while doing it? In your bed, shower or where?"

          "Porn was not something that interested me. When I do'wank off' as you primitively put it I find it best in bed."

          "I do. It's great. Now when we masturbate, we can imagine each other's mouths around our cocks."

          "I'd like to coach you more, much more if you're agreeable." 

          "It will be a pleasure to have you instruct me. You've been a good counselor in all matters."

His look, sly, weighty with uncertainty, "as your teacher you will obey me. Got it?"  
Daring me, playing with me? I guess I can take it.

          "Yes, teacher," I mockingly declare in my little boy voice.

          "Good boy, you learn fast."

I'm leery of Greg Lestrade. A side of him I never knew existed has emerged. If he wants to play the role of teacher, then I'll go along.

We drive back to my flat and say goodnight.

* * *

Tuesday again. I think I'll see if I can wrestle the lead from the Inspector. We're seated on the bar stools Greg's hand on my thigh; I pull it off.

          "Unzip your pants, Greg," sharply, but almost in a whisper.

          "Here?" he asks incredulously! 

Not qualifying it with an answer I reach for his zipper. Seeing as how I mean business he negotiates the zipper down himself.

          "Do you think you should talk to your teacher that way?"

          "Please, teacher, let me give you an 'apple'?" I air-quote this.

Oh, the ecstatic appearance on his face! I'm pleased to see him happy. He's been an integral part of my life.

* * *

          "Go ahead, my favorite student. Let's see what you can do."

* * *

Knowing he will not be wearing underwear, my hand goes to the space between his legs. I feel his hardness, his skin, proceeding to wiggle my fingers.

          "Sherlock, you're crazy," as he takes a deep breath, shivers a bit, grabs the edge of the bar and wets his trousers and my hand.

* * *

          "Damn you. You asked for it. Testing me aren't you? It's my turn now. Let's get out of here."

We leave the pub, driving to a small park. The hum of the traffic dimmed, trees rustling lightly, taking all this in while the state of my being is far from quiet. 

He finds a suitable park bench, sits and pats a place next to him. The closest lamp gives off a circle of light that loses its brightness as it nears us.

A few people are seen, the circle of light keeping us shadowed. I don't need his prompting, unzipping, my half-staffed member out in the open, his slightly chilled hand on it as it hardens with his touch.

A couple walks by, they nod towards us. As they move on the husband looks back and gives a thumbs up sign. He's seen Greg's hand on my unzipped trousers. I'm ready to explode, but his hand moves off.

          "Sherlock, you are fabulous! Now, here", as he unzips and takes his cock out. No one in sight, the tip of my tongue on his cock, I give a lick from top to bottom, shifting to engulf it in my mouth. 

          "Fucking hot you are," his hips bucking, shifting and comes, my mouth taking in his juices.

He's slumped down, gulping for air.

          "Yes, you did fine. You made your teacher happy. To come twice in one night is spectacular."

it's then that Greg goes down on the swollenness between my legs. Two fingers in his mouth, sucking them, slowly, his eyes never leaving my face, he slides his fingers up my ass crack and inserts one finger. I squeal.

          "Student of mine, you'll keep quiet and let me work on you. Do you understand?"

Giving a shake of my head, he pulls out his finger.

          "No, Sherlock, it's 'yes teacher'.'"

I growl at him, not wanting to give in to his every demand.

          "Yes teacher," between gritted teeth. Greg inserts two fingers into my ass, as my spine straightens, leaning onto the bench back.

          "Greg, I can't take-," and as he wiggles them, grabbing my cock, giving it a few pulls, I come on my shirt.

* * *

Don't know how either of us manages to get to the car. 

* * *

          "Greg, teacher, astonishing is all I that my mouth can utter at this moment."

          "I'm guessing you want to experiment more."

My bearing, quiet laugh says it all. I'll take and absorb everything he can hand out.

* * *

The whole week I'm in anticipation, counting days, then hours. I'd never realized that Greg was engaged so fully into sexual practices- and I was with him as an engaged and engrossed person.

* * *

At the pub once again we manage to down one drink and depart for Greg's apartment. The building is five floors new and polished.

* * *

In the elevator, Greg shoves me against the wall, opening my zipper, diving in with his hand to feel the warmth of my cock.

          "Greg, not here. Someone--"

The door opens, and as I expected, a couple enter. Greg stands in front of me, preventing them from witnessing my discomfort. The couple merely nods at us, getting off before us. We get off the elevator but move to the stairwell door, opening and entering the stairwell, he tugs down my trousers.

          "Sit on the steps."

Sitting, my bare ass on the cold metal of the step, Greg steps to the landing below me, my legs wide apart, my cock at full staff. Dropping his trousers, taking captive of his cock with his hands. 

          "Play, and get it so hard you gush out onto the steps."

I watch his flow hit the steps, him rocking back and forth from the effort.

Opening the door a crack, no one in the hallway, we're out of the stairwell, into his apartment with our trousers half on, laughing hysterically.

* * *

          "How about a drink after we freshen up?"

Doing so, drinks in hand, sitting comfortably in Greg's new place. 

He's moved out of his house, is now divorced from his wife. It's a warm flat, white walls, freshly painted. The furniture is from his old place, threadbare but comfortable. I was in his house numerous times, sleeping there when high on drugs.

* * *

          "Tell me, Greg, you must have had some experience with a man. I remember the first night we met at the pub; you said you would like to have sex with a man 'again.'"

His answer, when it came, surprised me.

          "My high school teacher taught me. Oh, it was not rape! I was fourteen. Found me with a porn magazine and it turned out he was gay. Showed me a gay magazine and from there he began to teach me. One proviso being I had to stay in school, get good grades. We stayed together two years. I fell in love with him. When I graduated, it was so hard to leave him."

Unable to sit still, looking up through his lashes he queries,"Want more Sherlock?"

          "Hell, yes! Can you have more? You're older than me."

          "Sherlock Holmes, you bugger you! I'll keep up with you anytime."

          "In the bedroom and strip, you ass hole," clothes flying off as I strip while hobbling to the bedroom.  
Onto the bed, laptop in hand, motioning me to do the same. Sitting up, leaning against the headboard, he takes his computer, turns it on and finds a gay porn site.

          "Watch, but no touching, either yourself or me."

The two men on the screen are already naked sitting on a bed, against a headboard just as we are. They are lightly running their hands on their limp cocks. One has blonde hair, and the other covered in tattoos. The tattooed man leans down to begin sucking his partner's cock, trying to get it to rise. The blonde keeps pushing the head of the tattooed man down hard. It seems like forever before the blonde shoves him away and fists his cock bringing it to a head on his stomach. Tattoo man turns the blonde over and inserts his cock into the others arse hole and pulls out to finish squirting his sticky liquid on the man's back.

* * *

Greg puts the laptop on the floor, leans over to the nightstand, grabs the tube of lube. 

          "Turn on your stomach and go up doggy style."

Doing so, turning my head so I can follow Greg's actions I see him lube his fingers. The slight chill of the lube running down my ass crack tightens my body. My head is on the pillow digging into it muffling my whimpering, as he inserts one finger gradually.

l groan, gripping the pillow, tightening as he goes deeper into me.

          "Don't tighten, take breaths and relax your back, and if you want me to stop, say the word doggy. It is a safe word, and I'll not continue."

          "No, no go on," breathless with the stimulation. My mind intent on recording every moment, every intensity. The whooshing sound I hear is my breath, as his third finger enters.

          "Doggy."

          "Do you want me to pull out?" 

          "No, stay still and give me the opportunity to register this."

I'm aware of how vulnerable I am. My backside up in the air, a man's fingers in my buttock hole. My lips tremble with the effort to stay in focus.

          "Continue, Greg," choked with emotions I've never realized existed for me.

          "Aahhh," his fingers twisting, parting to give a broader berth inside. Up to the knuckles, more buried yet, and partially out a few times.

Sweat beading on my forehead, my head twisting on the damp pillow, finding it hard to concentrate on anything other than the insertion.

I feel two fingers absenting itself from my hole, while the one stays inside and twists.

          "Do you think you'd like to take my cock inside you now? Do you want to try?"

          "Yes, do," babbling slightly.

The lube sitting on the bed is utilized on Greg's cock, taking his remaining finger out he lubes my ass hole. The wetness of it, the sound of it, has me tightening my ass cheeks.

          "Relax yourself, and again, use the word doggy if you have to," breathy, guttural.

The tip of him plays up and down my ass crack, giving me a feel for his size. I'm uneasy and eager. The adrenaline rush, the terrifying harm, all collide within me.

          "A bit at a time. We'll take this slow," and the rigid tip leads into me.

He holds it there, letting me lean back into it to some degree.

          "Go- at your- own pace," I say, between breaths.

The tip in, he pushes more.

          "No, no, stop. I want to, but-"

          "I can't hold out any longer. I need release," Greg finds my cock, pulling on it while he also experiences tremors, come spilling in my ass and down my legs.

          "Greg, Greg, I want to-," spurting on the sheet and myself.

Both of us collapse on the bed, trying to avoid the sticky wetness.

* * *

          "That was astounding!"

          "Same here Sherlock. It will take time to get you open enough to having me fully inside you."

* * *

Greg marches into the kitchen to find juice for us and we sit on the bed and unwind. Finally, Greg turns up doggy style. 

          "Come get me. Go right in Sherlock. Fuck me hard. I can take you in my ass. Been using toys to widen me" 

I first use my fingers as he did to me, to loosen his hole.

          "Don't touch my cock, it's hard already. Just fuck me," Greg whispers with desire. I pump him, both of us sweaty, and as my juices flow into his ass hole, I cry out. His come joins the mess already on the sheet.

* * *

The next day I realized that in all the time we've been fucking, we've never kissed. I've heard that prostitutes don't kiss their clients. Too personal. There are no deep feelings between us. A fondness for each other, but other than the sex, nothing. We don't converse during the week. If we do see one another, there is no indication of anything other than the work.

It's so all-consuming to me that Monday's I walk with a certain tightness in my trousers, awaiting Tuesday 

* * *

On that day, parking, standing out in front of us is a theater listing two pornography movies. 

          "New for me, never been to an actual theatre to watch porn," Greg tells me as he's paying for the tickets.

We go in, taking seats in the last row. No one else around us. I know we're up to no good. Or maybe it will be good!

The first film is two women and a man. We've entered as the movie is winding down.

The next movie is two men. Undressing they touch each other's cocks to get them hard, pumping them up and down. On a bed, cocks go in each other's mouths, and they suck. The dark haired man gets up doggie style, and the blonde goes over and inserts his cock into the dark-haired man's arse. He pumps and then backs out, and hand pumps himself some more, come shotting in his hands. The blonde man then assumes the doggie style and the dark haired man puts his cock in the man's arse, plays with the blonde man's cock and balls, pulls out of his arse and comes on his chest. 

* * *

During the movie, I'm in a state of complete desire. All I want is Greg, on me, in me. Greg slips down between my legs, looks up, pulls on my trouser legs to tell me to take them down.

          "Are you kidding me? The men here might see us." I whisper down to him."

          "Teacher says, pull those trousers down, or I'll rip them off you."

Shaking with anticipation, my trousers down to my ankles, he captures my cock and wets it with his spit. My eyes are open watching the film, and I see a man coming up the aisle. As he passes, he happens to glance down, gives a double take and murmurs, "Want to suck me off also?" His hand moves to unzip himself. I obtain an orgasm, bouncing up in the seat.

The man watches eagerly, his cock flopping out of his unzippered trousers.

Greg, my come dripping on his lips, glances up at him, winks,"maybe next time."

He brashly sits on the end seat next to me,"If you won't suck me then let me wank off." To my shock and surprise, he does, zips up and leaves.

* * *

Greg's enigmatic smile, stands, pulls his trousers down, his shaft closing in on my mouth. I take it in with long swipes in and out, pulling out, he squirts over my mouth and lips. I wipe myself off, we both zip up.

We stride out of the theatre, and to the car.

* * *

          "You are somewhat of an exhibitionist aren't you? No, I'll rephrase that. You are an exhibitionist."

          "It is a turn-on, don't you think?" 

          "Yes, the drama is gratifying and gives a titillation to the act." I recognize I'm immersed in this adventure.

          "Sherlock I honestly think we can do better than that movie. I've heard of something special. It's a men's only private club that caters to sexual adventures. Let me look into it."


	2. More Sherlock and Greg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John becomes a flatmate of Sherlocks. What does Greg feel? What does Greg do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still porn  
> 

On this particular Monday afternoon I'm in the lab at Bart's Hospital engaged in an experiment on the types of mud along the London Thames River. I've accessibility to the lab if it's not committed to another technician. 

Mike Stamford, a man I've known since university days, opens the swinging double doors, bringing in a stranger, whom I surmise will not be for long.

          "Sherlock, meet Dr. John Watson. John, Sherlock. I remembered you were looking for a flatmate, and so is John Thought this might be convenient for both of you." 

Slim, blonde hair and not bad looking, his smile a gentle one, asks where the flat is and more about the arrangements.

          "221b Baker Street. Two bedrooms, kitchen and one bathroom." We agree to meet outside the flat the next day at one in the afternoon.

* * *

I leave the hospital and head home to clean the place up. I've got a myriad of books and papers lying around in the living room and lab equipment on the kitchen table.

* * *

John Watson shows up right on time. My lab equipment is still sitting on the kitchen table, but at least the sitting room and its papers have been sorted and set aside.

John doesn't seem to mind the mess.

          "There's the second bedroom upstairs, which becomes yours, we share the bathroom down here. I don't cook, eat takeaway."

          "I can cook for us. I do a fair job in the kitchen. I own a clinic and my hours vary. I like that this place is in the heart of the city."

We shake hands and call it a deal.

* * *

          "I'll bring my gear around tomorrow if you'll give me a key."

          "See Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, she lives downstairs."

          "See you tomorrow," and leaves.

* * *

Tuesday is a busy day for me, and I'm not at the flat to see John move his belongings in.

* * *

I meet Greg at the pub as per our standard arrangement, not even waiting to buy drinks, he's hustling me to the car.

          "I have something special for us to do." He drives for about an hour to the outskirts of London, a sleazy part of town.

* * *

Parking, I see the theater marquee displaying the titles for, what I assume are two pornography movies. 

          "New for me, never been to an actual theatre to watch porn," Greg tells me, paying for the tickets.

We take seats in the last row. It's a smallish, old place, smelling of urine and semen. Taking a seat I notice they're worn, and the floor is sticky. No one else is seated in the same back row as we are, and my imagination goes to work. 

* * *

The first film is showing one woman and two men. She's performing fellatio on one while the other is copulating with the woman. We watch, what is the ending as the man pulls out of the woman's mouth spilling on her face.

* * *

The next movie shows two muscular men, in their twenties. Undressing, sitting on a bed, they finger each other's cocks to hardness, pumping them up and down. The leaner of the two, Mike, reaches down, his fingers massaging cock and balls of Carl. The picture shoots close-ups, Carl's pre-come leaking and Mike sucking it off his tip. They discuss whether to suck each other's cock or plow one's ass. Mike sucks on Carl's for awhile then gets up doggie style, while Carl inserts his cock into Mike's ass. A close-up of Carl's shaft as he slides slowly in, his balls bouncing on Mike's plump backside. He pumps vigorously and backs out, and handles himself, come is shooting into his hands and Mike's ass. Carl's mouth encircles Mike's cock and thrusts three fingers into Mike's ass hole. Carl pulls off Mike and lets him riddle his face with semen.

* * *

While the movie's in progress, Greg slips down between my legs, looks up at me and pulls on my trouser legs, signaling me to take them down.

          "if one of those men walk down this aisle they'll see us," I whisper."

          "Teacher says, pull those trousers down, or I'll rip them off you."

I do, shaking with anticipation, he finds my cock, and wets it with his spit, his lips attacking. My eyes stay open watching the film. A man ambles up the aisle, and passing us, he glances down, surprised at the sight he sees, "hey cocksucker, wanna do me?" 

He unzips, pulling out his stiff member. I can't hold it any longer, rise almost off the seat and come in Greg's mouth.

* * *

Greg looks up at the man, and winks at him,"maybe next time."

He brashly sits on the seat next to me," If you won't suck me then let me wank off." To my shock and surprise, he does, zips up and leaves.

* * *

Greg's enigmatic smile, stands, pulls his trousers down, his shaft closing in on my mouth. I take it in taking long swipes in and out, pulling out, he squirts over my mouth and lips. I wipe myself off, we both zip up.

We stride out of the theatre, and to the car.

* * *

          "It is a turn-on doing it in public, don't you think?" 

          "Yes, the drama is gratifying and gives a certain titillation to the act." I recognize I'm immersed in this adventure.

          "Sherlock I honestly think we can do better than that movie. I've heard of something special. A club. Let me look into it."

* * *

I'm home on Wednesday, and my new flatmate has made himself comfortable. He's moved one of the armchairs next to the fireplace, across from mine. His clothes are unpacked and in the spare bedroom upstairs. He's a simple dresser, jumpers, and jeans being the preferred dress. 

          "There are leftovers in the fridge, I think," trying to be amiable.

          "I've eaten already, but tell me, is that a bag of thumbs in there?" 

          "It's for science John. I keep various body parts in there at any time." 

          " For science you say? Ah well, as long as I don't mistake it for eats. You were out late last night. Oh, not that it's any of my business, but do you normally keep late hours?" 

          "A collegiate and I enjoy a libation every Tuesday night at a local pub."

          "You don't strike me as a heavy drinker. Not even a drinker. I do know you smoke, or used to because I see the patches in the bathroom." he has a questioning scowl on him as he picks up the newspaper to read.

* * *

We settle into a routine quite quickly. John is easy to get along with although I sense a tension, a temper beneath that composed exterior.

* * *

Tuesday rolls along, and I'm first to the pub. Greg walks up to me, his arm around my shoulder pulling me off the stool.

          "I found the place I was looking for, and it's a very exclusive club. Sherlock, please keep an open mind. You've been great so far."

* * *

We drive to a fancy apartment building, and as we park in the underground lot.

Greg opens his car door, my hand going out to stop him.

          "Before I'm immersed any further what is the expectations?"

          "What? Is the student questioning the teacher? When you get inside, it'll be explained. And we can leave if you don't like the whole thing."

Into the hotel, taking the elevator to the top floor, knocking, Greg gives a signal to the man opening the door. 

* * *

It's a sumptuous suite, modern black and white chairs and sofas, a bar, large window looking out over the city. 

* * *

In various poses eight men including us, are waiting expectantly. In their thirties and sixties, fat and slim, all wealthy, all self-indulgent.

* * *

The gentleman who opened the door calls us to attention by clapping his hands.

          "Here is how this evening will go down. Each of you couples has a bedroom assigned to you. You'll go in, place your clothes there and come out only wearing these thongs I'm now handing to each of you. Any man in here is fair game, even those not your partner. You're here because you want a different approach to getting your kicks. You're allowed to touch and caress anyone's thong. No going under it or in them.

          When you begin to reach climax grab your partner, head to your bedroom and do what you want. Come back out and start again. Dirty talk is allowed. No business talk, no names. There's a bar, part of your entrance fee, but only a two-drink minimum is allowed. Okay, have fun!"

* * *

          "Is this agreeable to you?"

          "I'm nervous, roused by this extraordinary club. Good research and development are possible. I might have to write a dissertation on tonight. Into the thong, then." 

          "Sherlock, you are a pretentious ass, and I love it."

* * *

Once in the thongs, black silk, we proceed to the main room. Greg playfully mauls the nearest man's crotch, motioning with a sideways nod of his head to move away from him and join the crowd.

A short, stocky man, bald, an eagle tattoo on his chest discovers my crotch, caressing it. Taking his lead, I repeat his motions on his silk thong. 

          " Hello there. You're a newcomer, aren't you? I'll be back to you later on. Give you a resounding hello."

Greg is groping a heavy-set man while on the white sofa, and I watch with interest. 

My cock was swollen and in need of relief.

Before I can get Greg's attention I have a dark-haired, bearded man fingering on my bulge hard and insistent, and I want to come. My head was thrown back, leaning on the bar, my body springing back and forth I push him away. My hand goes down into my thong, and my come spills in my palm, wetting the black g-string pants and myself. Embarrassed, I try to cover up and walk towards the bedroom that is ours.

* * *

I see Greg get up from the sofa, his genitals almost spilling over the thong, part of his balls out, waddling to me, his eyes on my wetness.

          "Never mind, most of us will be like that by the end of the evening," a chuckle escaping his lips, as his eyes travel down to his almost same problem.

          " You don't have to play by the rules. Most of the men will ignore any formalities I suspect." I nod yes and go to the bedroom to wash. My thong a sticky reminder of my previous activity.

* * *

On the sofa watching the action, I'm not surprised to have the stocky man with the eagle tattoo advancing towards me.

          "Ok, newbie, wet your fingers." 

Remembering Greg's instructions, I put three fingers in my mouth and wet them thoroughly. He rotates around, his back to me, shifting his thong away from his ass.

          "Put your hand on the sofa with your fingers up in the air." 

I do so, he positions himself, my fingers are in his ass crack. He carefully slides down my fingers, all three of them, murmuring. He takes my other hand, places it on his crotch and squeezes down; his cock is tight against his body. Within minutes he's bouncing so forcefully, it's not easy keeping my fingers straight. 

          "Shit, you fuck, you-, his cock stiffening, contracts and through the silk piece my hand feels his come.

* * *

Standing, he wipes himself off, taking a tissue from a box similar to ones situated on all the tables. Back down on the sofa, next to me, "Your turn." 

"No, can't take three fingers."

          "Ah, a real newbie!"

          "Okay, I'll use one only." I stand, shaking and move my thong from my ass hole. I hear him wet his finger and Greg is looking down at me, my eyes on his imploring him.

          "Careful with him, he's not used to ass fucking."

I sit slowly on the finger, Greg, with a reassuring hand on my shoulder, slides his other hand under my thong, a low keening out of my mouth. I sit down fast, surprised at Gregs move. Letting out a squeal, he soothes me, his hand performing magic under the thong.

The man's finger is delicately twisting inside me, and with a moan, I come on Greg's hand.

          "You've had enough for one night, I think. Let's call it quits."

Dressing and into the car, my body lethargic, head spinning from too much information.

* * *

At the flat Greg parks the car, and we get into the back seat. Our trousers down, we put our mouths around our pulsing cocks until we both have our juices in our mouths. I didn't care whether someone walked by and saw us.We get up, adjusted ourselves and said our goodbyes.

* * *

I'm glad John is asleep. These sessions are taxing, and my flatmate too inquisitive.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't know how I did this. So much porn became tiring, but it was part of the storyline.


	3. What's John Got to Do About It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's asking questions, and so is Greg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for continuing with this. I promise a neat ending.  
> I think Greg's character is so interesting in this fic. He's, deep down, a disturbed person. Hurt.

My dual life continues. Tuesday nights are about sex. The rest of the week is peace and quiet at home. 

* * *

John is a wonderful companion and starts a blog regarding my detective adventures, and clients are flocking to our door. I take John with me to a few cases, as a doctor he's useful in assessing a crime scene, giving me a full range of his expertise and his intuition. 

His expectations of me are high when I begin my litany of deductions his eyes shine with adoration. His cries of 'amazing, 'fantastic' are joyous to me.

* * *

His curiosity leads to asking about the murder scenes and could he tag along. It would mean a meeting between Greg and John. What would happen if John sees or gets a hint at our outings? Pure, simple John, finding out about our adventures would be horrified, disgusted.

* * *

I'm standing in front of a body lying face down on the floor of a restaurant, strangled with a cord from the curtain missing off the window. 

Greg texted me advising me to be at the crime scene. He had other appointments to visit.

His assistant, Sally, was instructed to let me have free rein.

I asked John to join me, and with a jaunt in his step, he follows along. I've finished my examination, my conclusion drawn and noted by Sally, and amid the noise of the police force scurrying about I hear

Greg's voice boom out.

          "I hope all of you gave Sherlock no heat, or you'll hear it from me."

Sporting his beige coat, hands in pockets he spots me and notices the man standing by the body. A stranger to him.

Getting between them I begin an introduction.

          "Greg, meet Dr. John Watson, my colleague." John moves to shake hands, but Greg ignores him. Taking my elbow, he directs me to a corner of the room.

          "My assessment of this crime-"

With no time to finish he jumps in.

          "Colleague? Is he living with you?"

          "Yes, someone to help pay the rent." His eyes narrow, furrowed brow, he turns to chat with one of the police officers, ignoring my presence. I suspect trouble when we meet next. 

* * *

          "You know Greg a long time?" on the ride home I'm now getting that same expression from John.

          "Yes, his staff is inadequate, and I'm an asset to him. It's the work that supplies my brain with constant exercise," and that ends our discussion.

* * *

          "You're going out tonite aren't you? Would love to join you for a pint or two?" my flatmate is upsetting me with the constant requests about my nights out. I don't comprehend why. His journeys to the pub are not questioned by me.

          "John, no, I prefer not."

          "Why don't we go ourselves one night?"

Not answering is best, gathering my coat and gloves.

John contemplates his next question which I'm assuming will be more pointed.

          "Who is this mysterious friend, you're out so late with and come home so damn tired, worn out, even into the next day? What's going on Sherlock? Wait a minute! You have a secret lady friend you're shagging. Maybe married?" 

His snort, looking pleased that he worked it out, he's back on his computer, losing interest in me.

* * *

Greg's already seated, a drink in hand. I sit, order one from the bartender.

          "Where to or what next?"

          "First, tell me about this 'John' fellow living with you," staring down the wood bar.

          "Greg, are you jealous? You've never alluded to anything other than our original objective, sex. I had advertised for a flatmate, and someone from Barts introduced us. John is there to help pay the rent. Mycroft alluded to cutting my income." 

          "A 'roommate'- he air quotes. "Oh don't give me that bull, Sherlock." 

          "He has the bedroom upstairs, he's a doctor and owns a clinic."

          "Why was he there today, and from what I'm led to believe he's been with you quite a few times. All of them when I've not been there. What are you hiding."

          "He's started a blog around my crime solving, and it's brought many a case to me. And money."

I think twice, floundering, not sure what I'm trying to declare. 

          "I was distressed that he would evaluate us and find what we do on Tuesdays abhorrent."

          "What the hell? Do you honestly think I would slip up? I haven't done it with any of the police force, why with a stranger? And what the hell does it matter what he thinks?" an incredulous stare.

I'm uneasy with my companion now and choose to show an interest in the bartender, the people around us, rather than have Greg's attention focused on me.

          "I'm not asking any questions of you, but from all appearances and your concern, it seems this man, John, has gotten to you. 

* * *

I'm trying to digest why I'm so intent on keeping John in the dark. Greg is right. Why does it matter to me? Is his opinion of me so essential?

Greg places his glass on the counter, swivels toward me, shaking his head.

* * *

          "Anyway, I've found us another person to play with us. It's time you tried a threesome." 

For a brief moment, I imagined he was going to mention John Watson. Agast at that momentary leap from one conversation to this, I unwind, grasping that our discourse about Dr. Watson is over.

          "Have you ever?"

          "Yes, long time ago. I found the variety stimulating. Are you in?"

          "An unknown factor. Another human body. Not secure with the perception. How-?" hesitation upon this venture he quickly jumps in.

          "Sherlock, you went to the club and had more than one man playing with your fucking cock. What the hell is the difference?" 

Shrugging I think why not!

* * *

We drive to a strip mall, park in front of a mattress store. Upon entering, I can see it's relatively small, and mattresses abound. 

A tall, black man; hair shaved off, forty-five, I surmise, introduces himself to us both.

          "I've told Don about us, and he can't wait to play. Fred has been checked and is clean."

No boyfriend at the moment but had a long-term relationship at one time. And, Don is not his real name.

We shake, he's eying me up and down, quickly assessing as I'm also doing.

          "It's closing time, let me lock the door and shut the lights." 

* * *

          "Why are you playing this game, Don?"

          "Simple. I'm in what is known as the lifestyle and enjoy group sex. It's been some time since I've only had three."

Don places two sheets, on top of another on a king-size mattress, away from the windows. The only illumination is from the streetlight outside..

          "This, gentlemen, is where it all will happen."

Our clothes are fast dropping to the floor, but my body is trembling visibly. Greg pulls me off to the side.

          "What's wrong?"

Uncertainty grips me, my head leans on Greg's shoulder.

          "Don't have to if you don't-"

Back up again, a deep breath echoing from me, "I'm fine," and move over towards Don.

* * *

          "Greg, you begin," Don continues to scrutinize me. I imagine he's noticing my hesitancy, so he waits for Greg to lead.

* * *

          "Let's start with a suck session. On the bed and let's form a circle. Shelly can suck you, Don and you'll be on me. I'll take Shelly."

Lying on the bed, manipulating our bodies to fit our performance we begin. Don's shaft engaged by my lips and tongue I'm squirming as the warm tongue of Greg's is working me.

It sounds of lips smacking on skin, slurping, and low rumbles that give an erotic tone to our labors.

I sense myself ready, tightening up, hips holding as steady as I can make them, I cry out. My semen is entering Greg's mouth. Within minutes all of us are satiated.

* * *

We're done, lying on our backs, relaxing in the glow of our labors.

          "One more session, if that's okay with you all?" Don pronounces.

Champagne is out from Don's stockroom, imbibing as I listen to Don discuss his journey into the lifestyle.

          "It's very freeform. We can have sex with married partners, sometimes with both or sometimes with only one. It's very open. Group parties happen, and you can have as many partners as you wish. Condoms are a must."

* * *

          "Are we ready to go again?" Greg asks, and we both nod yes.

          "Don, Shelly is new to ass fucking. It's not ready for full insertion."

          "I'll be gentle if you let me take him on."

I give my consent, turning on my stomach, jittery.

          "Up on your knees. Show me your delicious ass," Don states to me.

Upon compliance, Don's behind on his knees, his hands sliding tenderly over my back, my thighs. I'm shaky with doubt. How kindly will he be?

Greg's hand is brushing my face, a gesture I do not know from him. Compassion.

Don, after lubing his fingers takes two into my hole, from the first. It wrenches a low scream from my throat, and I lurch forward.

          "Do one at a time, Don."

          "Ah, he's that new at it! Okay, my friend, sorry. Let's go at it again."

This time he's rubbing his finger around the pucker, easing it open, delicately.

          "Oh!" Surprise at the feel of his tongue whispering a lick on the surface of my small fold.

A finger enters, moving in so carefully I hardly notice.

          "Okay little hole, take my fingers where they want. Into your abyss."

I can't concentrate on Greg's member my mind working hard to inhabit the moment. On his knees, he swipes his cock into my hair, my cheek, my lips.

          "Here goes two."

No, it's more than that, it's three. My fingers take hold of Greg's thigh, pressing my nails in.

          "Doing okay?" concern in his voice.

I can't answer, my focus on what Don's fingers were achieving. Sensations of ripples through me, stimulating every level, every sensory opening, driving me to cry out, moan, my body moving with his every surge of fingers.

          "You sound so hot. I'm coming out."

I'm twisting and moaning, the fingers working their way out, I cry,"put them back."

          "Ah, don't worry, you've got my dick going in."

The tip of his cock explores around my pucker hole, now open for him. Slipping in his tip, while Greg plunges his cock into my mouth, I'm beaded with sweat, needing an end. 

          "I'm not going any further. Oh, but you're so tight, so sweetly tight for my coooccckkk," his speech roughened, come flowing into me and down my thighs.

          "Turn over Shelly and let's take you on."

Both men down, one on each side and take licks on my prick, at the same time.

          "Now Shelly, we want you to tell us exactly what to do with you Use every dirty word you can think of."

I'm shaking with frustration. My cock is hard 

          "Shit, fuck, damn, bollocks," the words tumbling out, in rushes of whispers.

          "Amazing, keep up the words."

By now every fiber of me, every vein, each artery is straining tight.

          "Not yet, you don't get to come yet," Greg commands.

Shivering, shaking, sweating, the intoxication of it. Better than any cocaine I've taken.

          "Keep licking cock, my balls."

Oh god, I can't do this! the room is spinning, my eyes seem to be popping out, I'm almost physically sick.

          "Don, suck me off, Greg, lick my balls."

The whiteness around me, the room is gone, all thoughts revolve around my need.

* * *

Greg stuffs my balls in his mouth.

Don twists, up and down, Greg'

          "Don't come until I say so, " Greg hollers.

          "Greg, Greg, enough, please. Let me-," my voice, small and weak.

It happens so quickly, so much, spilling from me, spurt after spirt. My hips shaking, shivering with each lurch of my prick.

They both pull away from me, leaving me too exhausted to move. I have never experienced a high as this. Even with the drugs, I used to take.

* * *

I can hardly get my clothes on, my body turned to jelly. We thank Don, unlocking the doors as we leave. Greg has an arm around me, holding me until I get seated in the car.

          "I didn't think a threesome would be something I'd enjoy. But god, Greg, I can't seem to clear my mind. For a reason unbeknownst to me, this was more stimulating than the club."

I close my eyes, taking some deep breathing.

          "Your emotional distress was not because of the threesome. You're so used to getting your way. You talk how you want, do what you want. For maybe the first time in who knows how long, someone, me, held you back."

His hand reaches to my face, a finger tracing a line along my lips, almost a gesture of love, again

          "It was me," a raw nerve in Greg's voice, trembling.

He withdraws his hand, onto the steering wheel. Is there more to this experiment than I perceive? Has Greg more than a friendly, sexual interest?

The ride home is fraught with unspoken words.

* * *

John is in his chair watching a show on the telly as I stagger through the door. A startled glance at me, his position upright, doctors gaze on me.

          "What the fuck, you look like death has shaken every limb of your body." I choke on his use of the word fuck.

          "Have you been shooting up tonight?" anger touching his tone.

          "No, no, did them at one time long ago, gave up on them. Just leave it as it is, John." 

I shutter, slump against the wall.

John immediately by my side, holding me up. Shaking him off, I move to my bedroom before he has a chance to say more.

* * *

John says nothing about my Tuesday evenings-although each time I come home he's awake, waiting, watching me warily.

* * *

When we are both home we've fallen into a routine. Watching crime tv shows, he praises me for solving them before the actors do it.

* * *

I love playing the violin, John sits, listening while reading, even falling asleep in his chair. It's such the opposite comparison to my Tuesday sessions with Greg.

* * *

Back at the pub with Greg, his hand to my trousers, squeezes. I pull down my zipper and let his hand follow. Surprise on his face; he motions for me to go along with him out as I hold my trousers unzipped. In the driver's seat, Greg's trousers are undone, driving the car. It's night, and people cannot see into our vehicle.

* * *

Greg pulls up next to a truck at a red light. 

          "Open your window, get the truckers attention and point to your cock."

Again the exhibitionist theme, but with me leading. I roll the window down,"you hoo."

Pulling on my hard cock as he leans out to watch, and before the light changes, my come shoots straight up.

The driver laughs, the green light is on and he is gone.

* * *

          "Now lean over and suck me as I drive." Greg hums as my mouth closes on him, and his orgasm is in my mouth.

* * *

          "Let's find another trucker."

          "Too soon for me to stiffen up."

          "You drive and let me do it." It takes awhile to find a truck stopped at a red light. Greg, now in the passenger seat, rolls down the window and yells" Hey you, let me show you my cock."

As the driver looks, Greg shoots his liquid instantaneously. The driver gives him the third finger and goes on his way.

* * *

          "Guess he didn't like that," I giggle.

          "Let me have a go,"I say, finding this surpassingly erotic. We change places to locate another truck. I roll down the window, the trucker sees me before I can say something.

          "If you want a blowjob, stop at the next petrol station," surprising both of us.

Here comes that smirk that tells me that Greg wants this.

* * *

We pull over, not by the pumps, around the back of the station, where no lights are on. The trucker, in his forties, big belly overhanging, leather jacket on, steps to us as I open the door. He kneels on the ground, I turn on the seat sideways, my legs spread wide, the cool air hitting my cock, his tongue licking his spit on me, I'm quivering, ready to let go.

          "Fucking don't want you coming in my mouth. Pull out when you're ready."

Shoving him aside quickly, my juices spill on the ground.

* * *

Up to his feet, turning to leave, he spies Greg.

          "What about you? Get your kicks from looking only?"

          "Come get me."

The truck driver goes around, opens the door," I do your sausage and you do mine."

Not a sound from Greg as we switch places and in the front, I lean over the seat to watch them, a stranger and my friend. Greg's cock takes no time at all and he shoots onto the floor.

* * *

The truck driver is on his feet now, pulls down his trousers and Greg sucks him.

          "Suck hard you fag, You freaks. Cocksuckers like you should be lined up to fuck real men." Greg pulls the truckers cock hard.

          "Hey, mother fucker, once more like that and I'll beat the shit out of you."

Greg pulls away from him as he sprays out.

          "Nice doing business with you faggots."

Greg's not happy with the remark and neither am I. 

* * *

          "Greg, no more of this. It could be quite dangerous." 

          "Yeah, you are right." 

* * *

I was exhausted as I usually am after a Tuesday session. Why does John stay up? What is he expecting to transpire? Ignoring him I stagger into the bedroom.

* * *

It's Tuesday again and Greg is at the bar with a drink in hand.

          "Let's go to your house and watch porn and fuck," I say, hard as a rock.

Greg's eyebrows ascend to his hair. "The great Sherlock, saying the word, fuck? Wow!"

I playfully nudge him.

The usual happens, us taking out our dicks as we drive.

* * *

We zip up, get out of the car and this time Greg pulls me into the stairwell. "Open your fly and show it to me."

We both keep our cocks visible, and at each landing, he stops to suck me as I pull on his cock. On Greg's floor, he peeps out the door, no one there. We walk from the stairwell to his apartment with cocks hanging out.

I strip as I walk Into his bedroom and sit on his bed.

His laptop is sat on the floor, his clothes come off. On the bed, he reaches for the laptop. I effortlessly push him onto his back, laying between his legs, I've his cock between my teeth, scraping his cock. My fingers squeeze his balls firmly.

          "Stop, you're hurting me!"

I ignore him, fully engrossed in my technique.

He flings me off of him, throws me on my stomach and straddles my back, not facing me. Hands descend on my backside, slapping, each one enough to have me crying out.

          "How dare you hurt me!!"

          _SLAP!_

          "Unless asked for, you never-"

          _SLAP_

          "hurt-"

          _SLAP_

          "your partner. Do you understand?"

* * *

He dismounts, and his anger wears off.

Tears, pouring down my face, my ass smartingly red.

Is he so angry that this is the end of us? He rolls me over on my side, lying next to me, hugging, wiping the tears from my face.

The second time seeing tenderness.

          "You bad boy," his hands smoothing the curls on my head.

I'm flipped on my stomach, my hips up, slavering lube on his cock, without priming me, jams it into my ass. Between the spanking and this forced entry, I'm aware that Greg is still worked up.

          "Don't you dare come, your teacher is considering taking the strap to you. I'll spank you more if you spill before I do."

He pushes into my hole, I hold back, shaking and trying not to release myself. He spills in me, pulls out and goes to the bathroom.

No, No, he's not going to leave me like this. I force myself into letting my cock go limp.

          "I'm so, so sorry Greg," as he's out of the bathroom, flannel in hand to clean me up.

          "We don't do this to hurt each other, Sherlock. It's another form of sexual behavior, stimulating in its way. And no, I've never tried it and don't want to." 

We both decide to call it a night and ponder on what happened.

* * *

          "Greg, I-" 

He stops me with a finger on my lips-again the kindness was shown.

          "This night was an accident, so forget it happened. We'll still meet Tuesday's. Okay?"

A sigh of relief passes through me. Honestly, some inner part of me wants the comfort of his arms. But that's not our relationship.

* * *

I hobble up the stairs to the flat. At the top, I hear the telly on. John is awake.

As soon as I'm through the door, he catches onto my discomfort. Showing his anger and concern at the same time.

          "Here, let me help you," putting his arms around my waist.

          "You've been crying. Won't you tell me what's happening to you?" his unease written on his face and in his tone.

          "Can't John, let me go!" Pushing away from his arms, straightening up as best I can and stumble to my room.

* * *

For the next few days, my mind is distracted by thoughts of what transpired with my sex partner.

John sneaks glances at me when he thinks I'm not aware, and I sicken at the contemplation of him questioning me further.

Still deliberating on the occurrence of the last encounter I text Greg.

          _Again I am sorry_

His reply is instantaneous.

          _When next we see each other I'll take good care of you._

* * *

Tuesday morning I get a text.

          _Meet me at my place instead of the bar._

Walking into his apartment he hugs me, so shocked I go limp in his arms.

          "You've suffered enough. What would you like?"

          "I don't know Greg. Do you think we could see if Don wants to come here?"

Greg pulls away from me, concern on his face.

          "Something isn't right. I feel it. Why are you asking for Don?"

Not knowing an answer, I shuffle to a chair, sitting, hands clasped.

          "What's the matter Sherlock, talk to me."

Straightening up, I'm conscious of the fact I can't ask Greg about his emotions. That would have to be his decision to make.

          "Would a quiet evening here, watching a movie be agreeable to you?"

          "I have no problem with that. Wish you'd tell me what's wrong."

          "Nothing. Having a bad day."

The movie is a comedy, lightening up the mood.

Greg sees that I'm still out of sorts and takes me home early, no discourse between us.

* * *

Things get back to normal as Greg and I continue to see each other Tuesday's. Six months have passed. We vary what we do and when-always for the sex. There is no more show of emotion on either side.

* * *

One night, entering the flat I see John asleep on the sofa. Telly on, tuned to a porn site. I smile to myself and tiptoe into my bedroom.

* * *

The next day I get a text from John. Strange, never hear from him, call or text.

          _I'm making us a special dinner tonight. Bring your best personality, your biggest smile and be at 221B at six pm._

I text back an acknowledgment.

* * *

The kitchen table is cleared of my labware and set for dinner, plates, napkins, utensils.

          "Before you say anything all your equipment is sitting in the bottom of the cabinets. Pour some wine for both of us, will you? And sit down."

John, himself is dressed in a pink button-down shirt, black trousers. At the moment he sports a white apron with vegetables imprinted on it.

He raises it by the skirt, "Mrs. Hudson let me borrow one. Didn't want to get my good clothes dirty, and no funny jokes about it."

I assist in putting out a large bowl of salad, steak, potatoes, roasted Brussel sprouts, green beans and all the fixings for it.

* * *

          "You made all this?"

          "Yes, now sit and enjoy."

We spend a delightful evening, taking our time, discussing the politics of the day as we consume this wonderful repast. John knows I usually don't eat much-but this time I make sure to.

* * *

          "Would you like to play a game or watch telly?"

          "Let's watch something inane."

Consequently, I find John sat next to me on the sofa, very close to me. A shade too close, but I don't remove myself.

* * *

John casually throws an arm over the sofa, his hand resting on my shoulder. Fingers are running up my neck. For one second I assume, He's going to--and then he does. His face descends to mine; his lips brush my cheek, then my mouth. 

John is kissing me! Lingering, slow, soft nibbles on my lower lip.

I return it, sloppily, pushing my tongue to open his mouth. I don't know about tenderness. 

          "Whoa, not so fast. Go slow."

An unexpected sweet, tender touching of my lips. I crush my mouth on him, my tongue licking to get an invitation inside.

John pulls away from me, agitated, his eyes inquiring.

I have to ask the doctor, to review this new development.

          "Why are you kissing me, John?"

          "I've got a crush on you, you git. Using the teenager saying," another delicate touch with his mouth to mine.

Presuming he wants to copulate, I run my hand over his trousers, attempting to arouse him.

          "Is that all you think I want? I'm not a kid that has to have a shagging after kissing. There's more to it than that! Goodnight, Sherlock."

John's aggravated with me, and I don't know what exactly I did incorrectly.

He leaves me sitting there, my understanding of human emotions puts me at a disadvantage.

* * *

Telly still running, my mind goes into a spin. Greg wants sex, and sex only. Maybe John wants emotion and no sex. I'm unsettled. These emotional antics are too much to analyze.

* * *

The following day I'm home with nothing to do. john enters the flat after an early morning stint at the clinic.

          "I have no clients for the rest of the day. If you have nothing to do let's go to the art museum. They have a special showing. And how about dinner after?"

* * *

John has a good appreciation for art, he's asking good questions of myself and the gallery attendants. He tends towards landscapes while I like portraits. 

* * *

In sharp contrast to Greg, John cultivates a closeness to me, his hand slips into mine, always making eye contact. At times he's on tiptoe, his lips grazing my neck or cheek. Bewildered by the show of affection, not sure how to respond, but enjoying it. All thoughts of sex thrown out.

* * *

At dinner, watching his face, his changing expressions, his delight at my attention. I pay close attention to his bright blue eyes, the ever-changing expression, the admiring way his eyes brush over me.

* * *

In the cab ride home I seek his warm lips, giving him the choice of where this affair heads. His infatuation straightforward when he presses his tongue to my lips, opening with a slight nudge. Tongues intertwine, finding the sweet inner sanctum of our mouths, as hands comb through each other's hair.

* * *

Once home we collapse on the sofa, embracing. My first instinct is to stroke his crotch, his cock well evidenced. Pushing me away, As I proceed, I'm disappointed again. Can't make sense of what is expected of me.

* * *

          "I'd like to-."

          "Yes yes, I know. But don't know why you imagine we need sexual contact each time. There are other ways to show you care."

* * *

I move slightly apart from him, to ease my emotions, at a loss. His gentleness, warmth, his kindness is what I crave, so afraid I'm missing the mark.

The rest of the evening we sit close, holding hands, the telly on. I'm not fully involved in the shows, still torn between Greg's love and John's love. Each so at variance from the other. Opposite requirements for emotion, love.

* * *

I keep my sexual feelings muted. At bedtime, he lightly kisses my lips and I respond in kind

* * *

Tuesday rolls around again, the enthusiasm for this undertaking now dampened.

I meet with Greg, my glass in hand, fumbling with my napkin.

          "Whats the matter, somethings not right again. What are you holding back from me? I can see it in your body movements."

          "Greg I think I want out of this now."

          "Aha, it's the new boyfriend isn't it?"

          "No, the exploration has been enjoyable. Your teaching was well done. I'd rather keep it that way before it gets wearing on us both." 

Knowing it's partially right but the truth of the matter is it's John. He's been in my head all day.

Greg lets out a big sigh, taking a drink.

          "Shit. I guess I should have suspected it would end some day. How about one go-round tonight?"

* * *

I nod, and in the car, our trousers are brought down to our knees.

          "Where to Greg?"

          "Movies? First, suck me," pulling off to a side street. My heart not in it I'm down on my knees, his shaft ready for my mouth.

I back off, taking in a breath.

I'm imagining, in my mind's eye, Johns kisses, his eyes. Greg notices my cock is limp.

          "Let's leave it off here. You don't seem ready to play. I don't want to force the issue. How about I take you home?"

          "Yes, that would be the best solution," I say heavy hearted.

* * *

At the flat Greg gets out of the car, surprising me, meeting me on the sidewalk. His arms entangle around me. I continue with my arms around him, pulling closer, he passionately kisses me. 

Giving back with my tongue, my breath faster. Our kisses are wild; unspoken words unfold into our lips. I know it's no use to follow through and as if by common consent we push each other away. Greg's cheeks are wet, his tears spilling down. We stand apart, our feelings visible to each other. Greg moves, touching my cheek, turns, opens the car door and goes off.

I'm sure he wanted to open up to me. My confession would not have satisfied Greg. I enjoyed his company, but my heart was now with John Watson.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can keep reading all the porn it gets easier.


	4. Mycroft and Greg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A substitute for Sherlock? Where and how and why does Mycroft get into the act?  
> More porn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is always fun to tackle, at least for me. Enjoy. this is the last of the porn chapters.

Greg watches as Sherlock pulls away in the car with John Watson. They've just been on a crime scene together. Greg, saddened by the loss of his sex partner, his face showing it. He walks to the police car and is stopped by Mycroft Holmes, Sherlocks older brother.

          "They make a good team, don't you think?" I don't answer.

          "Unlike you and my brother." My head jerks up.

          "What, what did you just say?"

Lifting his ever-present umbrella to my chest, he taps my left side.

          "It hurts doesn't it."

Mycroft smirks and nods towards his car. "Get in the car, Inspector Lestrade."

Ah shit, He knows all about Sherlock and I and our sexcapades. Yeah, that would be like muckety-muck Mycroft. He always knows what's going on with his little brother.

Mycroft Holmes, the epitome of the English gentleman. Stiff, composed, slim, tall, always in a three-piece suit. All his clothes are hand-tailored. Claims he's a minor in the government, but I know better. He runs the whole shebang. Rumors abound that he has dinner regularly with the Queen.

And where little brother is concerned, Mycroft is ever watchful, to the point of being overbearing.

Mycroft and I slip into the car. Anthea is thankfully not present. She's his watchdog, secretary and who knows what else. In the world of Mycroft, you never question his associates.

          "Ok, Mycroft, so you knew about us. Why did you let it continue?"

          "Sherlock needed to come to terms with his sexuality. I had been looking for someone, and by accident, you came along.

          "Where are are we going? This is not the direction of the police station or my flat."

          "I'm taking you to the Diogenes Club, one of many sites I inhabit for an office. We have some," a slight hesitation, a quirk of the mouth,"things to discuss."

          "All right," sitting back in the plush black Mercedes that's Mycroft's mode of transportation.

Entering the Diogenes Club is an experience in itself. Limited in its acceptance of clients, it's very plush and quiet. In the main room, dark mahogany wood on the walls, pictures of ancestors of these halls I bet, and enough soft brown armchairs for at least twelve men. 

As we, or at least I, tiptoe out of the expansive section of the club, Mycroft unlocks a door, his private room.

* * *

Dark wood on the walls, with stain glass windows, letting in a myriad of colors. Chairs dark red and brown leather. A desk, formidable in size, but neat, no papers thrown around as mine has. A large sideboard and within, as Mycroft opens it, glasses and liquor. Knowing Mycroft's taste, they are the best whiskeys and bourbons one can get.

* * *

Mycroft pours us a drink. He knows, the devil, exactly what I enjoy drinking. Only it won't be the swill whiskey from the local pub.

His hand moves as a warning sign to stop, as I begin to protest.

          "I could tell he loved working with you. My organization kept you and him in a constant watch mode. When it became evident you were indiscriminate in your sexual behaviors and comportment I had to step in. When safe sex was not the dominant consideration, I stepped in. I worried constantly"

Nodding a yes as I hold the glass, ashamed of myself for putting us in danger.

          "I'm having both of you checked out, and even at this moment, Sherlock is at Barts, fighting my men on this subject. Before going back to the MET, you'll be driven to Barts for examination. I expect no quarrels on your part."

          " Damn, so sorry. I'll do whatever you say."

Mycroft slides into a chair across from me, settling his trousers around him, holding his glass and peering into it.

          "Greg Lestrade, for a detective you have had blinders on during your adventures."

          "What are you getting at?"

          "Remember the sex club? How did you find it?"

My mind goes blank and the realization hits.

          "Mycroft, you set that up? Me finding out about it through a retired officer, the hotel, the men! All of it?"

Mycroft doesn't need to open his mouth. He nods his superior nod.

          "Damn. Oh fucking god, I get it now. The convenient Fred, the guy with the mattress store?"

Again the silent nod.

Taking a big gulp of my drink, I stare at this man. 'Stiff, upper lip as we say.' Icy in his demeanor.

          "Mycroft, what do you want? You wouldn't have brought me here just to tell me this. And- no I’m not spying on Sherlock and John if that's what you're asking of me."

Mycroft turns his head to the side, in a 'you've got it wrong' look.

          "What would you say if I offered myself to your ministrations instead of Sherlock?"

I had taken a sip of my drink and now spit out the contents of my mouth onto my trousers.

          “I must have a problem with my hearing. What did you just utter?”

Peering into his glass, swirling the caramel color of his whiskey around," you heard me the first time, Detective Inspector."

Holy, shit! Wiping the damp spots on my trouser legs, I have to catch my breath to think. Sherlock was one sexy looking guy. It was easy to imagine him in bed. But Mycroft? The cold fish? The Ice Man as I have heard him called.

          “I don't have much time for this. Yes or no?”

Why not? I have nothing in the oven. This could be good for a few laughs.

          "Okay, Mycroft, I’m in. You call the shots where and when.”

          “My house at eight pm tomorrow. My driver will pick you up.”

And with that, holding open the door for me, still with that unreadable face, I walk out.

The car is idling in a parking spot I assume for Diogenes members only. The driver knows where I live, Mycroft’s handiwork again. Once there, I head for my liquor bottle, to clear my head and sit and remember.

I am still, after five months feeling the loss of Sherlock. We had never shown outward emotion, the attachment on my part was stronger than his. I cared for him, lots.

Seeing Sherlock and John at crime scenes, I've had to hold myself together visibly. As long as they were happy I have to let it all go.

Ah well, that was then! The now problem is Mycroft. What kind of partner will he be? I had suspected a long time ago that he was gay. Maybe he’s had a relationship with another male, someplace along in his lifetime. He is only in his thirties, but he was in university, where any shenanigans can and do take place.

In this situation, I think I’ll let Mycroft take the lead and see where it goes.

* * *

A bundle of nerves, that’s me, as we pull into the oval driveway. Surrounding the house is a well-manicured lawn. A two-story rambling place, front porch with Greek columns.

I approach the door, and it swings open by Mycroft's hand. Guess he was watching for me.

I’ve been in the house many times, and it amazes me that he lives here alone. His servants a cook, valet, and driver that handles odd jobs.

* * *

The entrance is oval with a large central staircase. The dark wood and scaled up windows give a Gothic look. The paintings of what I have assumed is family hang on the walls in the entryway and up the steps.

* * *

The ticking of the grandfathers' clock is the only sound as Mycroft leads up the sweeping stairs. The walls in the hallway have lovely landscape pictures of which I know are real. No fakes. Not in Mycroft’s house.

* * *

Opening a door, he waves me to go in first, closing the door behind me. We’re in a sitting room with red plush leather seats, tiny tables except for the one by the sofa. To the right, through the half-open door, I can make out a king size bed.

* * *

Mycroft pours a drink for both and takes a seat.

* * *

Feeling out of place, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into, I plop in a chair facing the person whom I know so little about, and I must admit I'm shaking.

* * *

He finally speaks, not as deep and baritone-sounding as his brother, but thoroughly in control.

          “Clearly, there are protocols to consider. What do I want and expect? Sex. No toys, no whips, no domination. Meeting times will be when I’m available. I’ll text or call. No disclosure to anyone else or indication we are other than a detective and government official. Other than that I am yours. Your expectations, Inspector?”

          “To be honest Mycroft, Sherlock and I never had any rules. We tried to find things we liked. Most of the time I led in our ventures. Oh yes, I don’t want to discuss what he and I did. I would prefer if we don’t mention his name. Also that he or anyone else knows about this.”

Mycroft, still peering into his glass, “You still have feelings for him don't you?”

          “I said no discussing this subject,” I demand.

* * *

Mycroft is wearing his usual three-piece suit. Standing, no indication of emotion, he removes his jacket, places it neatly on the chair, no invitation, no summons, moves to the bedroom.

I follow feeling the schoolboy, about to bang someone for the first time. I notice the tube of lube sitting prominently on the bed. A very cold chill passes over me.

* * *

Mycroft, his back to me, discards his vest, shirt, trousers, not wearing pants. He carefully folds each piece setting it on the clothes rack. Not a show of affection. He might as well be undressing for bed, my presence not there.

I begin to strip, as I take my trousers down, I turn to look at Mycroft, specifically checking his penis. He’s smaller than Sherlock. Damn, Stop that! Stop the comparisons.

* * *

Mycroft, without warning, shoves me on the bed and before I can respond he turns me on my stomach.

          “Wait a minute, I'm not a sack of potatoes.”

* * *

I did say I would let him take the lead, so let’s see where this goes.

I lift my hips up, understanding his intent. Lubing his cock and his fingers, he spreads my ass, inserting the fingers in, twisting and turning. My breath catches, my hips moving along with his fingers. He enters his cock after sliding out those fingers, but no gradual entry, full on, deep. 

We both groan at the same time. Pumping with strength, his hands pushing on my hips. And with small noises, he comes and pulls out.

* * *

Off the bed and into the en-suite bathroom, never glancing back at me.

I turn over and wait for him, trying to keep my temper. The whole time he never gave me a notice, never asked how I felt. My cock goes limp. Is he never going to give a thought to my needs? Is this how he wants it? Well, that's not for me. I'm not his fucking post.

* * *

Coming out with a towel around his waist, fiddling with his wallet on the dresser, he throws a wad of money on the bed.

          “What the fuck is that supposed to imply?" angry at his implication. Rising to his side, I raise my fist, intending to punch him, that's how disgusted I am over this.

His hand catches my wrist as it’s in the air, holding on tightly, squeezing my wrist in an athlete's grip. Mycroft is stronger than he looks.

* * *

          “What the fuck do you think I am? I’m not a prostitute! Let go of me, you ass hole!" Shouting as loud as I can, spit showering out.

I lower my arm as he lets go. My wrist chafing at the tightness of his hold.

Lowering my voice, but with outrage at his indifference, I challenge him.

          “Did you even think about me? About my cock? Or is your interest solely in yourself? Well, buster, it doesn’t work that way. It’s a two-way street. You fucking son of a bitch, you ass-" I can't continue speaking, my rage is so hot.

* * *

I gather my clothes, angrily informing him, having to pause between words, “Don't- bother- with your- big-shit ass- shiny car. I’ll grab a cab.”

I walk out, getting on my mobile. 

* * *

At my flat, the bottle of cheap whiskey in my hand, no glass, I get plastered.

The next morning I call into the MET sick, my head banging, my stomach roiling. Back to bed to shake it off.

* * *

A text from Mycroft wakes me. The clock says one thirty.

I"m still seething at his lack of insight. The Holmes brothers are known for their observations of people. Yet, there was none, no concern for me.

* * *

          "Regrets if I conducted myself improperly. Would meeting tonight be agreeable to commence again?"

My first reaction is.’you're a stinking piece of shit, Mr. Holmes.' The second reaction, wow, he apologized. Coming from a Holmes that's an accomplishment. First from Sherlock, now Mycroft. Let him stew, wait awhile before I answer.

* * *

Lumbering out of bed I know a hot shower, and some paracetamol will do the trick.

Shaving, checking myself in the mirror, I wonder why I’m into all this sexual stuff. I’m in my fifties, divorced. Is it that I feel my days for sex marathons are slipping away? At the university and even police academy my reputation as the fellow who could have orgasms constantly kept both the men and ladies at my feet.

I soon discovered it was less painful when I kept an arms distance from my conquests. Learning from a prostitute how they have, over the years, adopted the no kissing rule, I decided to take that on as my mantra. I kept it all about the sex, no heart involved.

* * *

When I met my wife that changed. I thought this would be a lifelong pairing. Very quickly after we married I discovered she was cheating, had been cheating on me with a married man. She had known him since she was a teen. I suspected I was the convenient cover-up. 

* * *

And I began my sex exploits all over again. We kept the deception of our marriage going only for the kid's sake. That was and still is the best part of my fifteen years with that woman. My girls.

* * *

And then along came Sherlock Holmes, twisting my heart, tearing at me. Afraid to show my emotion to him I kept the ice in my heart.

What the hell, I have nothing else to do. Let's see how it turns out this time around.

          "Okay, have the car pick me up at eight."

          "Door will be open, walk in"

I climb the stairs to the bedroom. Mycroft in sweatpants and a tee shirt and my anger boils again over yesterday.

          “Greg?” a questioning look on his face.

          "Shut the effing fuck up! You messed up. You supercilious dick. Do you think everything has a price on it? Just because I'm not one of your highbrow colleagues, you suppose I want payment? Oh, I don't know why I’m even here tonight.”

Turning on my heels heading for the door when he steps in front of me.

          ”Please, stay." Sighing I sit on the bed, and he pours me a glass of Bourbon.

          “I'm calling the shots as of this moment. You’re so used to giving the orders, but you so screwed up it’s not yours anymore.”

An idea inserts itself into my head as I am looking at the glass of bourbon.

          “Don’t just stand there like a blooming ass hole, take off those clothes. Sorry, you in sweats doesn’t cut it for me. You're not the sweats type," finally, letting go let's a smile light both our faces.

I sit on the edge of the bed, my clothes were strewn on the floor and place my flaccid cock in the bourbon. The coolness sends my cock straight up.

          “Myc, you love bourbon, come suck me off.”

Irritation and fear mixes across his face. He stays in place.

          “Stuck to the floor, are you? Get your ass over here and obey me, you overstuffed pig.”

I know I’m displeasing him, but he’s not doing anything but sneering at me.

* * *

On his knees between my legs, those grey eyes blazing hot at me. I don’t care; somehow he has to lose that haughtiness. My glass and his have been placed on the floor near the bed.

I lean back on my elbows and watch him. His mouth enfolds my cock, sucking the liquor off, so tender, so careful, I want to laugh. I close my eyes enjoying the sensation.

          “I’m not a paper doll. Use some pressure. Make like I’m your favorite sausage and lick me up.”

          "I don't eat sausage."

My impatience with him is making this too much of a chore. No fun in it.

          "For Christ sake, just suck the damn thing. Give it some pressure."

My head goes back, my eyes close. Enjoying the sensitivity his tongue and mouth are giving me.

          "Hmmm, that’s better, now my balls.” I feel lukewarm liquid dripping on my balls, getting me to jerk up to see what he’s doing. It's the bourbon. He’s dropping a little at a time in addition to licking my balls.

I’m bucking, hips rolling with his tongue on me, the beginnings of total arousal stirring.

          “Myc, my cock, fist it,” the whisper of my voice, belying the tension in me. I come, his hand and my stomach taking the liquid.

* * *

Moving him away after a brief moment of calming, I stand.

* * *

          ”On the bed in the same position I was,” I order him, my knees still unsure about standing upright.

Upon taking the bourbon, I dip his cock and balls in the beautiful caramel liquid.

He gulps in a few breaths.

          “Hmm, ahh, ooh, do it. I want you.” His hands are trying to grope at his cock, despite my pushing them away. I’ve got a vocal one here, which is fine with me.

          “Stop, will ya, I can't do anything with you squirming so much. Relax a minute.”

He goes still, my mouth over his liquored up cock. His explosion is so quick I can’t do much else. His semen full in my mouth, I gag and spit it on his pubic hair and cock.

          “Sorry fellow, but you have to let me know when you’re ready so I can swallow you.”

* * *

What a goofy smile he has on him! You would think I gave him the biggest Christmas present in his entire life.

* * *

          “Do you want to continue more tonight. Can you get it up again?"

          "Given some time and yes I will perform again."

* * *

“Can you call your driver even though the hour is late?”

          "He's available at a moment notice."

          "Get dressed. We're going out. Sweats are okay for now."

I feel in control of the situation.

* * *

          “Why do you insist on that horrid nickname of Myc.”

          “It's to show you you're no different from anyone. I'm Greg and you're Myc. An ordinary human fucking. For the time being, you're going to do as I tell you. No questions. Later on, as you get the hang of this you can make suggestions.”

I feel a slight twinge as we enter the car. To break with Sherlock, I want to go back and relive some of the shenanigans we did. Places we went.

* * *

          “Tell the driver to drive anyplace, no destination in mind.”

Mycroft takes out the car phone, “Peter, no specific end in mind. Keep going, and we’ll tell you when to stop.”

There’s an opaque glass partition between him and us and right now it’s rolled up.

* * *

          “Take those trousers down.”

          “My driver, he'll-”

          “Too bad. Take them down.” He doesn’t respond.

Shit! In light of his reluctance, it's going harder than I thought it would. He's either so damn stubborn or so damn afraid.

* * *

Bending down, and before he can react, I shove his legs apart, put my mouth in the middle of his trouser legs, blowing my hot breath over him. He tries to pull me off, even though I have my hands firmly on his thighs.

I blow again and my tongue, wet with my saliva, and as a result of this assault, his cock reacts.

Slowly I take one hand off his leg and begin to unzip him.

          “No no, cease. This is unseemly."

Ignoring his plea, I encounter dark blue silk pants. 

          “From now on when we're together you wear no pants.”

His hands are pulling my hair, trying to loosen me away from him.

          "Mycroft Holmes, continue this, and my anger will take me to a place you don't want me to go. Get your shitting hands away from me. Sit on them for all I fucking care. Maybe stick one up your ass if that helps."

The fire in those grey, now black eyes could light the sky. He's seething.

          "Come on big shot, give it a try. Give me a chance. You asked me after all. You know how far I went-." 

And there I stop. Unwilling to discuss my excursions with Sherlock.

* * *

Mycroft relents, his arms over his head holding onto the back of the car seat.

* * *

Pulling pants and trousers down around his knees his cock pulls out fully extended.

My tongue goes to his balls, licking a stripe up his cock, around his tip, pre-come dripping out.

He's bucking hard and trying to avoid me, squirming around.

          “If you don't settle down, I'll ask the driver to help me. And won't that be embarrassing for you?"

He stops at once, another dark, glowering look.

His body is shivering, rocking up and down, at the same time as my mouth is full of him, cheeks sucked in, pulling up and down.

My cock is full and straining at my pants, and backing up from Mycroft, I unzip myself, pulling my trousers down.

Suspecting he's climaxing I pull away, his come spraying onto my shirt.

* * *

Altering my position to kneeling on the seat, Mycroft turns his head away from me.

Getting very frustrated, my cock against his cheek, trying to have it in his mouth, he resists.

          "Suck me you bastard. Get my cock in your mouth,” exclaiming it loud enough that his driver probably could hear it even with the shield up.

* * *

Reluctantly his face moves to place my cock where it belongs. I shove in hard as he gags. I pull part way out and push way in again. And I come in his mouth, him choking on my liquid. 

          “Swallow. You don't want to get your car dirty do you?” My mood is not the best at this moment, even with an orgasm hitting me.

* * *

Quickly taking out a handkerchief he spits most of it out. A silk monogrammed, now sticky white handkerchief. Back on the seat we both put ourselves together

* * *

          “I'm thinking more on this proposition of yours, and I realize this isn't going to work without you loosening up. We need more discussion on what's going to happen. Let's go back to your place and discuss this.”

          “It's late Gregory. Should we wait until another time for this dialogue?”

          "Ok, shit, when can you arrange it?"

His mobile out looking at his calendar," I do have tomorrow night, at ten. I know that's a late hour, but I'm going out of town after that."

          "Okay by me. It'll give me a chance to catch up on notes I've left on my desk at home."

* * *

He instructs the driver to take me home. Arriving, Peter opens the door on my side, but I catch Mycroft avoiding Peter’s eyes. 

Our young driver is trying to keep a straight face but failing. His hand is covering his mouth and a giggle wiggles out around his fingers. I wink at him.

* * *

I've had a busy day with a string of stupid family disputes and a robbery. Not interested in sex tonight but want to see if I can get a better idea of what Mycroft is about.

* * *

The door is open, and I go upstairs to his bedroom where he's already got two drinks poured. Finding our seats, I sip some of the best whiskey I've ever had.

          “Have you always paid for sex Myc?”

          “ Well, yes-,” said carefully.

          “Tell me more about the ‘well’ part.”

          “I was only a young man, a teen, a teacher in school and-,” I stop him.

          "Tell me, he taught you about sex-" before I can say anymore his hand is up, a scowl on him.

          "No, no, you don't grasp my meaning. I was raped, twice by this teacher."

          "So sorry. Can you talk about it?" upset at the turn this was taking.

          "I was sixteen. He was burly, overweight, and in his fifties. My maths teacher. I was by far the best in the class, better than all of his other students and he asked me to stay to help grade papers. We finished, went to the loo together. He attacked me then, kicking, punching, my fighting to no avail. Violently, in the-- rear and after he finished he assisted in cleaning up the blood and detritus. I had vomited on the floor. Afterwards came the usual threats about revealing it to my family etc. I was sore for a week."

* * *

          "And the second time?"

          "In my science lab, alone, working on an experiment for extra credit. The classes had emptied out, I was alone. He found me, said he saw the light on and came to find out who was here. Didn't know it was me. He came at me, I fought again; he still overpowered me."

          "And you never reported him?"

          "No, my parents would have been embarrassed. That's the way they were."

          "That's not what I had. With us it was consensual, and lots of fun."

          "There's more, Gregory."

          "Glad you're so outspoken about all of this, so I know what you want me to do and not do. Whatever you disclose is safe with me."

* * *

          "Since that incident I've never had anal intercourse. I either paid for oral sex or masturbated."

* * *

The silence is extreme. Do I quit? Continue knowing that my share in this is somewhat therapeutic for this upright, rigid man.

          "What do you want from me and our future sexual engagements. Continue the honest part."

          "It's been easier having an orgasm with an unknown assistant. Paying gave it an anonymity. To have you, someone I know and regard highly is most frightening."

Throwing his shoulders back, it's as if he's now throwing the weight of this knowledge on my back. Asking for my assistance in releasing him from the horrid memory of those days, the burden now on myself. 

* * *

          "Relate your story, please, Inspector." 

          "George was my English teacher. I was fourteen and not a good student. More interested in chasing the girls and staying out of school. George was in his thirties, slim, hair to his shoulders. I disliked his class, found nothing engaging in language, the studying of verbs, etc." 

          "During the class, at my desk, I had a porn magazine hidden in my notebook. It dropped out, and he quickly saw it, came down the aisle, picking it up. He waited until it was time to leave, taking my arm, and asked me to return to his classroom after all my classes ended. Scared shitless, thinking he'd tell my parents I couldn't concentrate the rest of the day."

* * *

          "I don't know what made me go after hours, but I did. Expecting to be threatened, hollered at, he pulled out the magazine. We sat at the back of the room, and he went through it page by page. He showed me the pictures, questioning me about what I knew, what I thought I knew. Of course, like all mainstream porn magazines, it was male and female, heterosexual. His teaching was an eye-opener for me. He was frank, using technical words, not pornographic terms. It wasn't awkward or shameful. He certainly gained a lot of awareness about intercourse. There was more to it than I knew, at least at that time."

* * *

          "Getting a magazine out of his briefcase and handing it to me, telling me that when we meet again tomorrow, he'll discuss homosexuality. I was startled, never knowing the underbelly of sex. That's how I became acquainted with gay porn. The next day, looking closer at the gay magazine is when he hit me with the big question. Would I like to see how it goes with a man on a first-hand basis? I was intrigued. He would become my teacher. Of course, he explained the reasons to keep it hush-hush. didn't care. At first, it happened in school, in his room after classes were over. He was patient with me, and I never hurt or felt ashamed. It was as if teaching me about this was as important as an English lesson. When it became too suspicious to meet so many times in school, we went to his flat, his car or even a hotel room. He became my closest friend. A gentler soul you couldn't find. I fell in love with him."

* * *

          "He was still taking advantage of your youth and inexperience."

          "Yes. True. At the time I didn't think that. I loved every moment. He took me through it piece by piece a little at a time. Always gentle. And don't think for one minute he didn't get his kicks. He was gay and loved having me as his partner.

          "Oh, I almost forgot. He made me agree to stay in school, and just as essential to this experiment, game or whatever you called it, I had to get passing grades. I worked my tail off to advance.

          "We spent two years together. When I graduated I stayed in my room, the better part of a day crying. I was losing a great friend and my love. If it weren't for him, I would never have been able to enter the police academy."

Gulping my drink, pausing, seeing those days as I remembered George.

* * *

          "Even though I began going with girls, it was the proper thing to do, and later married a woman, in my heart, I've always enjoyed sex with a male."

Our different experiences resonate with both of us, each absorbing it, seeing where our differing sexual encounters has led us in our lives and to this moment in time.

          "Okay my dear man, we've spilled our guts out, and all of that is past. Done. Finished. Now we go on."

          “I want-" throwing my hands up, I interrupt as I huff out.

          “No, how about not giving me your wants. You're too afraid, of yourself, your past, what people will think, and how you'll look. Am I right?”

He acknowledges all that by not commenting.

* * *

          "Hmm, because of your crazy scheduling we can't set a particular night to meet. So it's up to you to call or text when available. Oh yes, almost forgot. We need to go over safe words and their meanings." 

Coupled with everything else I'm putting forth it's no wonder he casts a wary eye towards me. I can tell he has no clue as to what I am suggesting.

          “Safe words are used in many sexual situations, especially when you get into 'bdsm.' I see by your face that you don't even know what that means. It's to do with bondage, discipline, dominance, submission, sadism, and masochism. " At that, he responds by scowling at me.

          "For a man of your age,-" I throw my hands up, "you surprise me with what you don't know."

* * *

          "In any of our games we'll be treading easy, but you'll still want the advantage of using them when you're ill at ease, whether in pain or not. Here's how it works. Saying 'red' means to stop, 'yellow' is slow down, 'green' is go ahead. Either one of us can utilize this. It helps your partner understand how you're feeling and thinking.There's also a special word, one that you use to stop everything and discuss what's going on. Something you would not ordinarily say during the act. You have to pick something. What would yours be? Think about it.”

* * *

The still, solemn, quiet being I'm supposed to shag, considers while taking a drink of whiskey.

* * *

          “How about glass?”

          “Glass it is.”

          "What about you? Don't you need a safe word?"

          "Actually I've outgrown that. But if you want, I'll use 'criminal'."

With a sign of his acceptance he motions to the door, and I move to it

          “Thank you, Greg, for a second chance.”

He bends towards me, and I get a distinct impression that he is going to hug me, and I back away.

          "By the way, here are some rules that I ask from you, no hugging, kissing, or signs of affection.”

          "Telling, isn't it?"

          "No analyzing me. It's the way I work."

          “Goodnight. Peter will take you home. I'm going to Spain for a good while and will call or text you upon arrival at home.”

* * *

For two weeks I hear nothing. It's just as well. Gives me time to get my head straight. I can't play this as I did with Sherlock. Mycroft is a wounded man. I want to help him over this hurdle. Things have to go slower, and I have to be more responsible for my actions.

* * *

During that time a robber is breaking into houses stealing jewelry, and my team can't find anything to go on. No clues. I have no choice but to call in Sherlock and John.

* * *

As usual, Sherlock is surly and blindly attacks my police force with his words. John is doing his best to keep him away from his favorite target-Detective Anderson. I'm inclined to stay as far from Sherlock physically as I can.  
But despite that, his voice rings out, noticeably meant for me.

"Lestrade, how's my brother faring?"

Shit, that's not good.

* * *

Moving to his side, I yank him to the edge of the crowd.

The closeness of him, the smell of his body, is astoundingly pulling me in two directions; to be as far away from him as I can get, and to kiss those bloody lips until swollen and bleeding.

* * *

          "Sherlock, what I do with your brother is not your concern. But please, don't embarrass him or me by blurting out your deductions of how many times we've screwed. Okay?" 

* * *

So hard to stare him down, but I try to now. Those brilliant eyes now blinking with feigned innocence but penetrating none the less.

* * *

          "Take care of him. And most important, take care of you. I see-" and see he does. He focuses that brain and sees my inner being. I love Sherlock Holmes. That hasn't changed.

His demeanor softens, hand on my shoulder squeezing it, and proceeds to John's side, conferring with him on the robberies.

* * *

John approaches me, his notebook ever present in his hand.

          "I'll be over to the MET, later on, to give you our notes. Something happening with you and Sherlock?" his voice has a jealous tone to it.

          "No John, I assure you. That was over long ago. He's being Sherlock."

With that I walk to my police car, drive to my office, telling myself to take large breaths. Forget him. Let him out of your mind.

* * *

Over the next months, my encounters with him are abbreviated. He's shying away from me. And that's breathless in itself. Sherlock giving a care about my feelings.

That has to be John's doing.

* * *

A text hits my mobile.

          _Meet me tonight at the Grand Hotel at eight. Drinks are on me. Peter will pick you up. Is a room necessary?_

          _No room Myc, take you up on a drink. Only one. no formal dress. Jeans and a shirt. See you then._

* * *

The car is here at eight sharp. I get in and meet up with a surprise. There's my man in his usual suit attire, dapper as ever.

          "I had an appointment. It ran late. I have a change of clothes."

          "Put on your clothes here. Not where we're going. It won't be appropriate for you to walk in dressed as you are now."

He obliges and even in the darkness, I can tell he's blushing when his trousers come off, and his genitals are exposed.

* * *

With a whisper near my ear, ”No underwear."

          "I can see that," beaming. At least he's trying.

* * *

          “Will Peter listen to me if I give him directions to where we're going?"

          "Yes, by all means, direct him.”

Directions given I see my partners raised eyebrows in surprise.

          “Yes Myc, it's not in the best part of town. Do you trust me?"

No indication either way. A detached, impassive affectation, is his fall back attitude.

* * *

Pulling into a parking lot, out of the car, and Mycroft stops as he reads the marquee sign. It’s a porn theater. Not the same one that Sherlock and I had visited a few times.

Peter steps out of the car with us.

          “Mr. Holmes, do you mind if I go in also?”

Mycroft gives a sideways look, and I say to Peter, “Yes, just don't sit near us," a slight chuckle in my voice.

I think Peter is having a hard time not laughing at this situation.

* * *

My curiosity is peaked as Mycroft stiffens up entering the theatre. How will he react? It starts with two couples brought together, and the wives leave to shop. The men discuss their sex lives. One, the shorter man asks the other if he's good at sucking cock. Of course, the usual begins with them undressing and giving blowjobs to each other. Midway through I place my hand gently on Mycroft’s crotch to see how he's responding.

Bouncing slightly in his seat he doesn't remove my hand. Running my palm around him, pushing into him, he bulges out.

* * *

          “We're done in here. Let's go outside.”

We leave the theater before the show ends, and find the car in the parking lot.

* * *

          “Don't get in, come around here away from the theatre exit.”

I lean him against the car, loosening his trousers as he beings to protest.

          “Myc, why not give it a chance? Let it go, will you?.”

* * *

I bring his expensive jeans to his knees, his cock pops up. Down on my knees, his firm shaft fits in my mouth, swirling my tongue from the tip down. It doesn't take much to have him gripping my hair with one hand while pounding on the car with the other. Snapping back and forth his juices flow as I take part in my mouth and part I spit out.

* * *

I get up and see him bring his trousers to his waist.

          "Ok, tit for tat time," my trousers quickly down. I see part fatigue from the orgasm, and a part of a sneer written on him, for what I'm not sure, but he bends down, takes my cock in his mouth. I purposely hold on for a few, and before climaxing, "Going to come," and he pulls out before my semen flows into his mouth.

* * *

We've just gotten ourselves put together when Peter is strolling to the car. I can see the signs of his enjoyment in the flush on his face. Peter and I understand each other, and as he winks at me,-fireworks go off in my head. I stand transfixed.

* * *

Peter is about twenty-eight years old, I figure. A muscled figure, short blonde hair that has a slight curl, light blue eyes and an air of nonchalance.

Something in me shakes. But hell, he is my son's age! Quit it!

* * *

Back in the car, I sense a new twist to this. Peter is gay! And he's flirting with me! And, I'm getting a thrill out of it! This youngster is playing with me! Forget it, Greg! He's not for you. Concentrate on the person sitting next to you, the man, not the boy. But still, how did that happen?

* * *

Another week passes before I get a text. And it's from Peter.

          _Tomorrow night good for time with Mycroft?_

          _Good_

Peter picks me up in the car, and on impulse, I open the front door, not the back, and slip in. He smiles at me- an all-knowing twinle to him. The insolent git!

* * *

His hand reaches over for my trousered cock. "Not now, Peter. Give me your cell number." That came out of my mouth without a second thought!

* * *

'Shit', I think to myself, I do sound like a prostitute!

Cell numbers exchanged, we pull up to the big house.

* * *

Upstairs, Mycroft, as usual, is dressed in his formal attire. I raise my eyebrows. 

          "I have some business to attend to at the Diogenes Club. If we could go there first, it will only be a for a short while."

* * *

At the club, sitting in Mycroft's office, an idea pops up. He's occupied outside for fifteen minutes.

* * *

The door opens, I can tell he's agitated, placing some documents in his desk drawer, his eyes narrow when he notices my wolfish look.

          "No, not here," with a firmness, crossing his arms.

          "Take down your trousers," just as firm.

He stands his ground, eyebrows raised.

* * *

          "Hmmm, would you like me to walk out to the main room with my cock hanging out, yelling 'Mycroft raped me'?" I smirk at him.

          "Greg Lestrade, you wouldn't dare! Your reputation."

          "Yours too. Care to challenge me?"

His look would kill an elephant in full charge.

          " Again, try to lighten up. I'm not going to get you kicked out."

I remove my trousers and sit in the large wing chair.

          "This chair should be a great seat for you to humble yourself. Get on your knees and, in layman's terms, suck the hell out of my cock. Here's my handkerchief, so you don't spoil me or the chair."

How delightful to see the aristocrat, on his knees, playing the role of submissive. His face between my thighs, my one hand pushing him further in and out. It's not hard to stifle my moans into my sleeve and give out with a humming when I finish myself.

* * *

          "Need I say anything to you?"

* * *

We reverse positions with me on my knees grabbing his balls, placing them in my mouth, sucking them in. He lets out a yell.

          "Quiet down. You'll rouse the old geezers in the other room, and what I sight they'll see when they barge in here," a little snicker escapes me.

My hand rounds his cock, I see precome, tonguing around the tip. My mouth dips down over his extended member and sucks up and down. He lifts up, his hips off the chair and lets loose into my mouth.

* * *

          "Congratulations! You now are a select member of the Diogenes Club," I giggle. He wipes himself with his handkerchief very angry at the moment, and even at my joke.

          "Not talking to me are you?"

          "Stop smirking you ass," he replies.

That sends me into peals of laughter.

          "Ah Myc, you are something."

Out to the car and Mycroft is still glaring. I snicker.

* * *

          "Are we still up for continuing this?"

          "Yes," he sighs, resigned to the fact.

Peter takes me home but getting out I look down into his window, he salutes with a hand, and my heart jumps.

* * *

Work seems to pile up, having me stay at the office long hours. I'm tired and grumpy when a text comes through.

          _"Tomorrow at my house at six? I'll have dinner for us."_

          _"Skip the dinner thanks. I'll be eating early at work. Make it seven. I need to finish a report._

When the car arrives I step into the back. Peter turns his head, "Cold feet, sir?"

          "Peter, this is nonsense. Leave it be." The arrogant, smug kid!

He moves out and into traffic, and all the time I feel ridiculous. My heart beats faster at seeing him. Not carrying this any further, oh, no you're not!

* * *

Looking for Mycroft in the upstairs sitting room I turn my head side to side and see the bedroom door wide open, and Mycroft on the bed, naked.

          "Hmm, nice surprise," shedding my clothes as I enter and shutting the door.

          "Since you're getting to be comfortable with how we've progressed, I'd like to move further on, if that's good with his highness."

Suddenly sitting up, he's timid looking, and frightened.

* * *

I've been carrying a tube of lube in my trouser pocket and have it in my hand. He's seen it, and that's why the panic.

          "Lie back down. I'm going to be slow and gentle."

He's on his back, and I crawl on the bed moving his legs apart, resisting me, tightness in his limbs, but he gradually allows it to happen.

My heart is pounding with anxiety. Not sure about my next move and how he'll take it.

I can tell he's apprehensive. His breathing is coming on fast, and he's shaking.

I open the tube, laying the gell on my fingers, rubbing fingers together to warm the gell up, my hands in plain sight.

My hand dips between his legs to his ass crack.

* * *

          "Sorry if it's not warm enough."

          "I'm going to run my fingers over your ass hole. That's all."

As I do he stiffens, trying to tense his muscles to close the gap, the shivering evident. 

I find a blanket rolled up at the footboard and place it over him. I know it's not the cold but panic that has him shaking so much.

* * *

          "Loosen up, no need to be tense. It's easier if you take deep breaths. Keep your eyes on me, don't close them. Eyes focused on me all the time. I'm going to tell you exactly what moves I'm making before I do it." Gingerly my fingers rub his pucker hole, keeping it light. My other hand slides up and down his thigh, trying to relieve his fears.

          "I'd like to put one finger in your ass hole. Can I?"

          "Ummm," he moans and turns his head to the side, trying to hide in the pillow.

          "Mycroft, look at me, don't turn away, eyes on me. Can I do this?"

His body still shivering, he flips his head back to face me again, his hand reaching for my free hand. I grasp it, and he holds onto it in a death grip.

* * *

          "Give me a safe word, Myc."

          "Green," he barely gets out.

* * *

My one finger, delicately as possible goes in only as far as the first knuckle, his whole body projects up into the air, a shriek emanating from him.

          "A word."

          "Green," is the whisper as he settles back down, those grey eyes trying hard to keep focus on me.

I push in all the way, all the while examining his face. Alert to any signs he's too uneasy.

          "Another finger, Mycroft."

His free hand goes to his face, over his eyes.

          "No, don't do that. It's me, Gregory Lestrade. Take your hand from your eyes. I want you to know who is doing this, being this gentle with you, asking permission."

It's a struggle within him, I can tell, but he does it. I give him a smile of encouragement and continue with a second finger in his ass, again the breaching of him sends a deep shiver down him.

I'm not moving my fingers, keeping them in and stationary.

* * *

          "One more finger."

With that finger in I hold, letting him get a feel for it. His body begins to relax. Let go. The tightness around his pucker hole has opened up.

* * *

          "One more undertaking and we'll stop. I'm going to move my fingers in there. Give you sensations. Let it happen. Okay with you?"

          "Green," is all he says, one hand gripping the pillow, the other slack by his side.

* * *

With his cock fully extended I take it in hand, and all I do is run my fingers lightly over it, pre-come on his tip as I use that as a lube.

I start to move, stretch my fingers wide, to allow him to feel me in there. I'm hitting his prostate with a finger and turning it away. His body is arching, now his one hand gripping onto mine, fisting his cock with me, still eyeing me. With a sudden jerk, a yell, he's orgasming.

Ever careful I pull out and let him settle down.

* * *

          "Gregory Lestrade, thank you," and his face screws up, tears welling, turning into sobs he hides in the pillow.

* * *

Getting off the bed I go to the bathroom to clean up, giving him time to compose himself.

* * *

'Greg, you did it', I say in my head! I still have butterflies in my stomach and am surprised I didn't have an erection, but it worked out wonderfully.

* * *

Back in the bedroom, he's sitting up, using a handkerchief to dry his face, and moves to encircle my waist.

          "No hugging, remember?"

          "I can't thank you enough. Would you mind it if you departed now? I want to absorb all that developed tonight."

          "Mycroft Holmes, you take all the time you need. Text me when you're ready."

I slip on my clothes, head down to where Peter is sitting in the library. We walk to the car together. He opens the front door, but I decline and get into the rear.

I need time to myself. To organize what is next with Mycroft. And to sort out the mixed feelings that Peter gets out of me.

* * *

The next morning I slip into my office to find a brown box on my desk. There's a bottle of Aberlour A'bunadh whiskey. I whistle, the price being out of bounds. A tag on it reads, 'With Gratitude.'

It's from Mycroft, no doubt. This whiskey is not my usual shlock stuff. Raisins, dried fruit, and chocolate. A sipping wine. Back in the box and onto today's work.

* * *

It's months now since last I saw Mycroft. I've texted him a few times and no answer. Peter texts me.

          _The man is in France. I'm here in London_

As much as my heart beats a yes, my head thumps a no, you stupid idiot! And no text goes back.

* * *

It happens to be a blustery day and I'm standing outside, hands shoved in my pockets when my mobile chirps. A text from Mycroft.

          _My house tomorrow night at five. I'll cook dinner for us. Wear suit. Won't take no._

          _Good deal._

* * *

Why a suit, as I adjust my tie in the mirror? We're eating in. Ah, well, never question the aristocrat.

* * *

The car pulls up, my heart doing a flip seeing Peter for the first time in months. The delicious, magnetic, craziness comes over me. I fancy this youngster. And it hasn't gone away. Peter doesn't say anything, and I prefer it that way.

* * *

I sit in the back nevertheless, composing myself for whatever this evening has to offer.

* * *

Treading with purpose into the house, Mycroft's voice rings out.

          "In the kitchen, Greg."

Moving in the direction of the smells of food, the aromas of which set my mouth to watering, my stomach to bubbling and my nose twitching.

* * *

There stands Mycroft behind the counter, in a three-piece dark grey pinstripe suit, black shirt, and sea blue tie. And a white apron over it!

The amazement on my face, his face shining with delight, looking over the moon to see me.

* * *

          "Dinner tonight starts with a light clear onion broth, balsamic glazed filet mignon, steamed summer vegetables, roasted potatoes, sourdough bread, followed by creme brulee," the apron being peeled off as his stuffed shirt voice beams with pride.

* * *

          "If you tell me you cooked all this yourself I'll-"

          "Don't be foolish. The bread and creme brulee my cook, Anna, did," handing me the bowls and plates, we step into the dining room.

* * *

The soup is hot, the broth tinged with pepper, and I hardly say a word, consuming it all.

Cutting into a medium rare, just right, piece of meat of which the first bite goes into my mouth, "Where did you learn to cook?"

          "I taught myself over the years. The repast at social dinners tends towards blandness. It became a fetish of mine to cook the way I liked my cuisine."

The meal is a great success, wine flowing, conversation easy going.

* * *

          "I would suggest we seek a movie and relax until the meal is suitably digested."

* * *

A comedy picked out by me from his vast collection of old movies. Watching 'Some Like it Hot,' I don't know what Mycroft has up that expensive suit of his. This whole time he hasn't loosened a button. I follow in his footsteps, although I loosened my belt and button after the meal..

The laughter eases us both up and, after the show is over, the mood switches. Mycroft's elegant body leads us to the bedroom.

* * *

The reasoning behind the suit quickly becomes apparent. He has me sitting on a chair, as his body languidly begins a strip-tease. Each garment is playing a role in enticing and tempting. I'm assuming he's practiced his movement in front of the mirror.

Coming from the once stiff, formal Mycroft this has the effect of my jittering around in my seat, my trousers too tight, my want showing.

* * *

His body, fully naked, gyrates onto the bed on his back. Suggestive, seductive. What a turnabout!

I'm not about to perform a strip act. But I can do something that would appeal to him.

I use the chair as a prop. Stradling it, I remove the upper-most of my clothing, making sure my legs are spread wide open. Standing, leaning over the chair top, my back to him, I swivel my hips to remove my trousers.

* * *

Dropping the pants, I slide onto the bed and his mobile rings. He reaches over me to pick it up from the nightstand, his face drops, and he's now talking in French. Very disturbed look on him.

The phone is thrown on the bed, he hastily dresses.

          "Get dressed promptly, I'm afraid this night is-"and he's visibly shaken, to the point of not being able to talk.

          "What's wrong?" as I grab my clothes.

          "My aunt has passed. Sherlock is coming to get me."

          "Oh Mycroft, so sorry."

* * *

With that, he reaches for the servant's phone and asks for Peter to rush upstairs.

His voice is wobbly, and I understand he's holding back tears.

Both of us are dressed, Peter knocks and enters, seeing his boss in a state of anguish, he wraps his arms around him. How strange for this to be happening.

* * *

Mycroft explains what's wrong and he and Peter begin to communicate in French. I feel lost in this intimate scene between them.

Mycroft seats himself and covers his face with his hands, I know the man is crying.

I move to him but Peter is there quicker and, kneeling, he rubs Mycroft's arms, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping the tears.  
The gentleness in the young man is stunning to watch. It's his boss, after all. He doesn't have to show any emotion.

          "c'est bon pour toiyes, si je te laisse seul ici"(is it good for you, if I leave you alone here). Peter's murmuring.

          "oui, vous pouvez y aller maintenant, Sherlock arrivera" (you can go now Sherlock will be arriving,), Mycroft reaches his hand to touch Peter's face, caressing his cheek.

          "il est à toi maintenant, emmenez le au loin,sois gentil avec lui (he's yours now, take him away, be good to him).pars avec amour (go with love)."

* * *

Peter stands, taking my elbow," We go now, Sherlock will be here soon."

          "Should we leave him alone?"

Peter is trying to rush me out, but I stop.

          Mycroft, if you need help, call me."

* * *

But the man has his face in his hands again.

* * *

Peter pulls me out of the room, and at the bottom of the steps, stops, his arms wind around me and the tiniest, quick kiss descends on my lips. His arms have me tightly in a grip, another tentative grazing of my lips.

          "Time to go home, Greg."

* * *

I'm situated in the front seat of the car, as I see Sherlock stepping out of a cab.

"They were very, very close to the aunt and uncle. Practically raised the boys while Mummy and Daddy were too busy with work," the driver of the now moving car explains to me.

* * *

Peter parks in the garage, steps out and follows me to my door.

'It's now or never,' my head is saying. If you open this door without saying goodbye now, he'll follow you in, and your life will change.

The door to my flat shut, the only illumination a small lamp and the street light shining through the window. Peter has moved in behind me, I shift around, taking him in my arms, forgetting everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh! Thank goodness the porn is over!


	5. Greg and Love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who does Greg really love?
> 
> * * *
> 
> No porn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems my Greg is beginning to understand love.  
> A quote from the movie "The Maltese Falcon" is in this.

It's morning.

I can tell, wiping my sleep-ridden eyes, by the noise of traffic and the light from outside. My bed, once housing two bodies now contains one-me. Where is Peter?

* * *

I can feel a goofy expression crossing my face, dreaming about last night, engrossed in Peter.

* * *

At the onset, allowing his lips on mine was astonishing but upsetting. I would let him, but quickly lean back, then allow a kiss again, but not kissing back.

* * *

          "Why don't you want me to kiss you? Is there a special problem? Can I do anything to help you?" he finally asked. Never had anyone ask questions like that before. But that was last night, and this is the morning.

* * *

My hands folded behind my head, still unwilling to get up, I have to question what is happening to me.

* * *

Peter was so considerate of me last night, offering alternatives,"do you like this, would you try that?" Careful in words and in his movements.

* * *

I've always been the leader, my hunger pushed aside in favor of satisfying the other. 'Oh damn, let's face it, Greg,' you're high, your orgasm was you being the dominant one.

Now Gregory Lestrade, what do you want from this young kid? He unmistakably admires you, wants to be with you as friend and lover.

Would you be embarrassed having him on your arm? Would you be better off hiding it?

Gregory Lestrade, if you can't have your first love, Sherlock, why not go for the whole bag of tricks? Who cares what anyone thinks, you want him, he wants you, go for it!

* * *

Springing out of bed, my step light, humming, showering, a light breakfast to start the day, then to the police station and a day of work.

* * *

Mid-afternoon Peter texts me.

          _I'm off duty tonite. How about dinner and a movie?_

          _Great_

          _have the car. pick you up at five. Greek?_

          _New for me but okay_

The car is waiting. Strange to have Peter picking me up and not going to Mycroft.

* * *

Peter touches my cheek with his fingers. Good move, I think. No pushing.

I let Peter order the food. A Chicken Soup Avgolemono, Moussaka, and for dessert, Custard Phyllo Pie. I try a ginger-mango smoothie.

* * *

          "Have you heard from the Holmes boys?"

          "It seems Sherlock is the stronger one, helping out their uncle. Mycroft has fallen apart. I find that hard to believe. It's always Mycroft who takes on the job and Sherlock falling apart."

          "Did John go with them?"

          "No, not at first. He's driving down tonight."

* * *

There's a minimum of conversation after that. The restaurant is not busy, and that leaves us able to sit after the meal to talk.

* * *

          "How in the world did you come to work for Mycroft?"

          "My father has a job in the official end of Mycroft's staff. His office is in the same building as Mycroft's main office. They cross paths lots and Dad, and Mycroft discovered they both love history. When I decided I didn't want to go to college, having no set academic goals, Dad asked Mycroft if there was a position for me. He needed a driver. His former driver had moved to America. I do know how to repair cars and am good with my hands fixing things, so here I am. Been doing it ever since. He's an extremely generous man. When Dad had knee surgery two years ago, Mycroft set up the best and finest for him, his cost."

* * *

          "One never thinks of him as being generous and kind. He's so stiff and proper. Question? How do you know French and why did you speak to him last night in French? If that's any of my business to know."

          "My last name is Brunelle. Father is from Paris; mom is from England. They met here and settled in London where my grandmother lived. Mom took care of her until she died three years ago. Both Holmes brothers speak many, many languages, but Mycroft's favorite is French. I noticed that Anthea, his secretary would speak it when he was agitated. He seemed soothed by it. So that's why I spoke French last night."

          "Can I ask what was said?

Peter ducks his head, shy to answer.

          "You don't have to tell me."

          "After inquiring what I could to do help, and asking if he needed me to do something for him, he told me to drive you home and gave his consent to us being together."

          "He did see it! I tried to keep it hidden."

          "Come on, Greg. Do you think you can cover up anything from Messrs Holmes?"

Laughing and agreeing with Peter, our chairs pushed back, paying the bill and we had forgotten about the movie. Our discussion being too interesting.

* * *

Driving home, debating back and forth in my head. Do I want Peter in my bed tonight or not? Maybe not. With most people, I didn't mind jumping into sex the first night. But, Peter was not most people.

We drove up to the apartment, into the parking lot, and the motor is kept running, waiting for me to take a stance. Peter's instinct tells him I'm debating on something. He lets me sit.

* * *

          "Peter, something in me says to set aside the sex for now. I'd like to know you as a person before a sex object. I have to say though, in all my years I've never had anyone have such patience with me, such consideration for my being. It was unbelievable!"

          "Thanks for that compliment. I see your point. Dating you would be fine. You can have me anytime you want Greg. You know how to whistle, don’t you? You just put your lips together and---blow.”

And we both laugh.

          "Movie is Maltese Falcon, Lauren Bacall, saying that to Humphrey Bogart, right Greg?."

          "You got it right. I see you also like old movies."

* * *

I knew Mycroft was back from the funeral, but I waited until I felt he would be his old self before contacting him.

* * *

This day was easy-going at work. No crimes, no paperwork to tackle. Deciding to take the afternoon off I text Mycroft.

          _Are you available for getting together sometime today?_

          _A cup of tea at Winthrop's cafe at three is all I can manage_

          _Good by me. I know where it is_

Winthrop's, near the Administration building, where the hoi-polloi of government hang out. No surprise to see all suits enjoying afternoon tea.

* * *

Mycroft is standing by a table bent over chatting to a gentleman with a full mustache, when he sees me arrive, beckons me over.

          "Mr. Brunelle meet Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."

He stands to shake my hand, and the French accent is very distinct.

          "Ah, a member of the police force. What a pleasure."

Oh my god, I just met Peter's father! Does he know of us? I swear my face is brilliantly red.

          "Excuse us while we partake of our tea," Mycroft replies, taking my elbow and leading me to a table away from Brunelle.

          "Did you set that up," as I sit.

          "No, he was here before I walked in, and accosted me."

No other comment needed because Mycroft had that foolish grin he gets when he's upped you.

* * *

Tea and dessert ordered, and before it comes Mycroft has his inquiring manner about him.

          "Thanks for Peter, is all I can say. I'm worried about our age difference."

          "Do not to concern yourself with generation differences. He's very mature and will surprise you with his knowledge. I know you'll treat him kindly. But do recognize he might leave you someday for a younger man than you. Take your happiness now, worry later."

          "Yes I'm going to discuss that with him. We have many things to work out."

          "I'm glad you're being level-headed."

I see his face fall, sipping his tea to hide his distress.

          "You'll find someone Mycroft. Now that you've passed a hurdle, and by the way, do you want to-" before I can complete my sentence he cuts me short.

          "No, you are occupied by another. I don't need your guidance now. Thank you,"brightening up.

* * *

Peter's work consists of him being available to drive Mycroft whenever the man needs him, and that makes it hard to plan our excursions. Most of it is on the fly, last minute.

* * *

In four months we've only managed to see one another six times. Something needs to change.

* * *

          _Mycroft, would like to see you sometime this week_

          _Tomorrow at Diogenes at two?_

* * *

I acknowledge an okay and walk back to my office, piled high with paperwork.

* * *

In the door burst Sherlock, that dark coat swirling around him, leather gloves on, hair tousled.

* * *

'On the floor you tempting ass,' my brain calls out, looking down at the perfect spot on the floor to haul him down and fuck him.

* * *

Leaning, his hands on my desk, "you left Mycroft for a child?" What-"

I cut him off, snapping at him, "It's none of your fucking business what I do. That is between your brother and I. That's all I'm going to say. Now, if you have nothing valuable to add, get out of my office."

          "The floor? Lestrade? At least it's carpeted." Looking at the exact place I had imagined us in.

          "Damn you, get out,"slamming my fist on the table, snarling at him,"now." Turning away, with his coat circling him, he leaves. How they do this deduction thing is beyond me.

* * *

          "Everything good? I saw Sherlock come out looking like he hit the jackpot. 

          "I'm okay." But, in reality, I'm not.

* * *

Mycroft and the Diogenes club go together like ham and eggs, and that's where we meet, in his office..

          "I'll get right to the point, Myc."

          "No need. I have another man to compensate for anytime Peter is away with you."

          "Reading my mind again?" a never-ending amazement for me.

* * *

Our 'dates' are fun, and I relish in the adoration of this man. We've confronted the age problem. I let Peter know that as much as I treasure him, there might come a time when he needs to leave. 

At first, he poo-poos it. He later recognizes the practical end of discussing this way ahead of time.

* * *

It takes almost five months from the beginning of our relationship before he moves his belongings into my flat.

* * *

Mycroft was kind enough to allow us the use of his house when he was out of town. We had the large kitchen and the vast selection of movies to watch.

* * *

I soon adjusted to Peter's lovemaking. My dominant role was still there but subdued by his restraint. He was like that in all parts of our life. It took some time, but I got used to the idea of kissing without flinching away.

* * *

          "Greg, I have a problem, and this won't be easy for you."

After almost four wonderful, fun years of us together, I see the end coming.

* * *

          "What is it? I know you've been bothered by something."

We're sitting in the living room, the snow falling lightly outside, casting pretty shadows as it hits the window.

* * *

          "I've been looking at universities. I want to major in automotive technology. The one that has accepted me, or at least the one I'd prefer going to is in New York City."

I say nothing, my head telling me this would happen, but I don't want it to end. He's quiet, waiting for my response.

          "I can't stop you, won't stop you. If this is your dream, you have to follow it. Besides, we knew there would come a day, and this is it."

* * *

I can hear the snow dribbling on the window. I can hear the clock ticking. But the loudest of all noises is my heart beating. Cracking in two.

* * *

Two months later I'm at the airport seeing Peter off.

          "You will keep in touch, won't you?" I've asked that fifty times in the last day.

          "It's so easy to talk to one another nowadays. We've got texting, emails, and Skype. I promise you'll hear from me all the time."

I watch the plane down the runway, knowing this phase of my life is over. What lies ahead I have no idea.


	6. A New Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who's the new beginning for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've kept up with this story, this is the ending.

Retired now, I'm working with young kids from the low-rent neighborhoods, having started an organization to teach them forensics. 

The senior members at Barts have been instrumental in setting up a small laboratory for us to do simple experiments.

I've also begun to write a book on my exploits with Sherlock and John.

* * *

Detective Sally Donovan calls me in occasionally to work on murder cases with the men. They also have slowed in their practice of running after the criminals, realizing that their sprinting days are almost over.

* * *

The first year Peter and I kept in constant contact, but it became fewer and fewer. One day, I receive a letter.

_Greg_

_I'm hoping that your life is going as well as mine is. My grades are holding up, and I expect to graduate with honors. I've gained a bit of an American accent, including the idioms._

_I've met a wonderful fellow and we're in love. He's from San Francisco, a lover of art, science, and cars. Jack is his name. We're going to move to San Francisco when we graduate and marry. Isn't it wonderful that we can marry? I can't thank you and Mycroft enough for the encouragement you always gave. I'm going to write to him as soon as I finish your letter. Please know you are always with me. Thanks for all._

_Yours in love, Peter._

* * *

So glad that Peter is thriving.

* * *

I hear my mobile ringing, waking me up, peeking at the clock I see it's one am. Groggily I wonder if it's another junk call. Noticing the call is from Detective Inspector Sally Donovan I quickly hit answer.

          "There's been a traffic collision."

Her voice wobbly, breathless.

          "A drunk driver crashed into another vehicle. Both drivers are dead."

Her composure slips, and I hear her crying.

          "The driver--not drunk-is, oh,-John Watson.

* * *

She hangs up, hysterical. I have no time for her. My heart stops. All thoughts are for Sherlock.

* * *

          "Oh, my god!! Mycroft,"I yell in the darkness to no one.

          "Greg I know. Get to Sherlock. He's not answering his mobile. Go to the flat," and hangs up.

* * *

My trousers, shoes and a coat, not bothering with any other piece of clothing, I rush out to my car. With tears coursing down my face, my hands shaky on the wheel I'm not paying attention to speed.

'Sherlock, Sherlock, don't do anything stupid', I think to myself.

* * *

Out of the car, running up the stairs to 221B, I yell frantically, 

          "Sherlock, Sherlock."

Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, flings open her door overwrought, sobbing and falls into my arms. I wipe the tears from her face with my hands and try to get her into some semblance of order.

          "John is- Sherlock went-,"leaning into my chest. Now knowing he isn't upstairs, I push her away from me, shaking her gently, "Mrs. Hudson, where is Sherlock?. He ran out-"hiccuping from the bawling, "screaming, drugs, need to die."

Before she can continue, pushing her off me, I'm out the door.

* * *

Panting from exertion and fear, speeding to the side of town where the dealers are I know he once frequented, I try to hold my panic down. Think Greg, where would he go first.

* * *

Text from Mycroft. Slowing the car down to normal speed I look at my mobile.

          _Sherlock found. He's in an ambulance heading to hosp. Go there._

* * *

Screeching wheels I turn and head for Barts Hospital. Parking in the police emergency zone, I know no one will bother my car with the badge in the window.

Running into the Emergency entrance I wave to the nurse on duty, who recognizes me.

          "Mr. Holmes is in room 104, off to the right." Mycroft is already at the bedside.

* * *

I grab this usually stoic man in my arms and feel his body tremble. He mumbles into my shirt.

          "It took four men to secure him into the ambulance. Not certain how much he took, but his heart rate was over 160. He's on an IV saline solution and lorazepam. Now it's up to him. I suspect he'll come out of this and try again to harm himself." He's taking in large breaths, and all I can do is hold onto him.

* * *

          "But without John-," he begins to sob as I rock him in my arms, tears streaming down my face. Molly, a medical examiner that has worked with Sherlock in the lab, enters, face and nose red.

          "Molly, can you find another chair. There's only two in this room and also call the nurse in." She comes back, chair and nurse together.

* * *

Making sure Mycroft is sat down, I ask the nurse for a sedative for him and a room where Mycroft can lie down 

          "Thank you, Greg, but I want to be cognitive when he wakes," giving the nod to the nurse.

          "I'll take water though."

I know he's shaky on his feet if he's asking me to bring him a glass of water.

* * *

It takes an effort to move to the bed, to stare down at the white-faced, inert Sherlock. His hair is tousled, my hand combs through catching on the tangles of locks. 

The man who I've always had more feelings for than Peter. The man who I rescued all those long years ago from a cocaine overdose. The man, in other words, whom I still loved.

* * *

I could have stayed the night, but Mycroft posts one of his agents to be stationed at Sherlock's room with orders to call if any changes occur.

* * *

There was no sleep for me, tossing, turning. If Sherlock gets over this hurdle, I promise myself I'll be by his side, whether he loves me or not.

* * *

In the morning I pack some clothes, have a quick breakfast, and over to the hospital. Mycroft has delivered again; any regulations in the hospital dropped in consideration with Sherlock. 

* * *

At Sherlock's bedside, holding his hand, kissing his fingers, a tenderness I never realized I had in me. Thank you, Peter.

* * *

His face is stark white; his beautiful cheekbones look even more sunken than before. His hair, which normally is curly and unruly is all tangles. The nurse gets me a hairbrush, and I tenderly comb the black curls into some state of order. 

          "Please you bastard, come back to us. Stay with us." I move the chair closer to the bed and keep holding his hand. Never noticing when Mycroft enters.

* * *

          "Touching to see. Your belated devotion."

* * *

          "Shut up. He fell for John even while with me. I couldn't get between them. What I did was for Sherlock, not myself."

          "Ah, the sacrifice!"

          "Why are you mocking me? You didn't help either." And mimicking the man, "Take me as a substitute."

* * *

He walks, no sweeps out of the room. I have to go to him. He's worried over Sherlock and anything he says I have to forgive.

* * *

I see Mycroft at the desk and moving to him, place my hand on his back, stroking it. He twists around, a kindhearted glance at me.

* * *

          "Anything we need will be taken care of while he's in the hospital. Ask the head nurse."

* * *

I go to the bathroom, and when next I enter the room the sight I see is fantastic. A surprise to my eyes. Mycroft, chair pulled close to the bed, is leaning over Sherlock, arms holding him in a hug. I've never seen the man show such emotion to his younger brother. 

* * *

During the day we get visits from Molly and Mrs. Hudson. Once, I had to walk out of the room, and it's Mrs. Hudson who comes out to me. She puts her arm around me in a big squeeze. 

          "Oh, Greg, you put on a big show-but I know you cared for him more than just a little." I turn to her, and the tears fall.

* * *

          "Ahhh, you take him to your home when he gets out of here. You'll do a better job of caring for him then his brother. They'll probably fight all the time."

I have to laugh at that because she's right. It's her turn to wipe the tears from my face. I feel like a little child.

* * *

That night Mycroft and I are the only ones in the room sharing a newspaper, and from the mouth of the detective, "Joohn! John! Come back; I can't do this without you." 

Mycroft stands to comfort Sherlock, but he glares at his older brother and in a gravelly emotional voice, "why didn't you let me die?"

Quickly he turns, with his unhampered arm tries to pull out the IV needle. I'm on my feet, rushing over, but Mycroft, standing right there, catches his hand, shoves it away from the catheter needle and carefully lays him back down on the bed. The nurse is called in to give him something to quiet him.

* * *

After Sherlock is sleeping again, I say to Mycroft. 

          "I insist I take him to my place when it's time for him to leave here. No, ifs and's or buts-," Mycroft raises his hand to stop me.

          "I've given the matter my deepest consideration, and it would be best if I stay out of this matter. Whatever you require let me know, and I'll also have his clothes and sundries brought over to your flat."

* * *

Sherlock wakes a few hours later, lying there, face turned away from us.

          "Let me die; I want to die." The sound so pathetic, so lost. 

My face next to his, a hand stroking his cheek, trying to comfort him

          "Sherlock, cry, go ahead. It's okay."

          "No, it's not. Your sympathy is worthless to me."

I understand that right now he's going to be disagreeable to anything one says.

* * *

Before his release, I scour the flat for any drug, any item, my gun even, that he might use for a suicide attempt. I have no doubt he'll try.

* * *

He's discharged from the hospital and transported to my apartment building and upstairs to my place. 

Sherlock pounces in, acting like a spoiled child and flops on the sofa.

          "Would you want to talk about him?"

          "Don't start with the psychological babble. I know very well what you're doing."

Lying down he twists away from me.

* * *

          _Lunches and dinners will be sent to you for the next two weeks._

          _Thanks. He'll be difficult but I've done this with him before if you remember. Takes patience._

          _I have every confidence in you_

* * *

I'm glad Mycroft feels that way. I certainly don't. I'm a lot older now. The patience is not like it was years ago when coaxing this enigmatic man to listen to me. I'm willing to try, hell yes.

* * *

I shake him firmly while he's on the sofa.

          "You'll have toast and tea or even something more substantial right now. Don't make me force you."

And as anticipated, he rotates around to see me, to give me a dark, killing look. 

          "I need the bathroom."

Gets up, stomping with enough strength that I'm sure my downstairs neighbor thinks I have a horse in residence.

          "Keep the door open, and don't bother searching for pills, or other things. There's nothing there." I yell in.

* * *

Out he emerges, into the kitchen scraping the chair aside, sitting on the table. Without a glance, I fix tea and toast with jelly marmalade, set it down and leave the room. I hear the chair being set back and can tell he's eating.

* * *

It's eleven at night, I'm trying to wait him out. I want him to go to bed but don't want to push it. I at least coaxed him to change into his PJs and dressing gown. 

I made a noodle soup, and he finishes all of it and even takes the dish and spoon into the kitchen, surprise, surprise. Of course, he doesn't wash it.

* * *

          "Come to bed, it's late, and you need to sleep."

Up from the sofa to my chair, he kneels down, puts his head in my lap and cries convulsively. Long choking, deep sobs.

* * *

My hands comb his long, unruly hair, giving kisses, and shushing him. He's quieted, but still, with occasional hiccuping sobs. I gently lift his head and wipe tears from his cheeks with my fingers.

Back on the sofa, still choking, sniffling, wiping his face with his dressing gown, lying down, back to me. I stand and look at his long, lanky form.

          "I'd like to get some rest. Do you want to go into the spare bedroom?"

          "I'll stay here," comes the muffled reply. 

          "I'll be in my room with the door open. If you want anything, call me."

          "Why would I call you?"

          "No reason." 

The bed welcomed my body and I sunk, weary to the bone, asleep.

* * *

I knew it would happen~waking up to Sherlock yelling, finding him sitting up, on the sofa, head down between his legs. 

          "Ssh, there, you can't be that loud. I have neighbors, you know."

Trying to make a small joke.

He glares and Sherlock's glare is formidable.

But I have seen it before, and to me it's beautiful.

His hands are pounding on the coffee table, hard, and I think he'll break a bone. I seize them with my own, pulling him up off the sofa.

Still in the same position I lead him to my bedroom and thrust him down sitting on the bed, me next to him. 

          "Here, pound on me. Hit me. Do what you need." 

I drop his hands, and he sits mute, motionless.

          "He's gone, he's gone," and the tears fall. He lays down, grieving, lamenting, the words garbled in with the sobs.

          "How do I continue without him? My blogger-,"whimpering," my love," weeping," my-."

He lies down, and my body surrounds him. Holding him in my arms tightly, I let my tears trickle down my face. I rock his body, hearing moans issuing from him.

* * *

Finally, I sense him falling asleep and staying as we are, I pull the covers over us as best as I can, and sleep overtakes me.

* * *

Each day I observe him. Sometimes I catch him searching surreptitiously for my gun, or any weapon he can use. I know the knives are safe. Too hard to make a clean kill.

* * *

To relieve me from the constant watch and the ever-changing moods his mom, Mycroft or Molly stay here for a few hours. I can go shopping, or even go for a drink with one of Sherlock's old buddies, Mike.

* * *

It's still a struggle to get him to eat, and even to shower, and the nighttimes are bad. His dreams, his shouting out for John.

He's moved into the guest bedroom, and I have him leave the door open.

* * *

It's weeks, then months that pass and Sherlock's beginning to accept his loss. Sometimes, he stares at me, his knowing how I feel making me uncomfortable.  
One day, out of the blue, he asks, "Do you miss Peter?"

          "He was a wonderful man, a comfort to me, but I never really loved him. I knew it would end; it had to, he was young and ambitious. But, it was good while it lasted."

* * *

          "And what about my brother? What did you feel towards him?"

          "How to explain that to you. Let's say it was an enjoyable period, and Mycroft got more out of it than I did."

          "I have to concur. He's a kinder, more sympathetic man than before you."

* * *

          "I'm bored, bored, bored. Dinner out?"

Ah, he's awakening! I know we won't frequent any restaurants that he and John did. Especially Angelos. Too much hurt in that.

* * *

It's the start of my detective coming out of his shell. He asks if we can take on a case or two and, upon calling Sally we keep to the simpler ones to start.

* * *

I kept my feelings tucked in, only wanting what was best for my friend. He's generous in his looks towards me, understanding, and surprisingly kind.

* * *

The first anniversary of John's death is hard on both of us. 

          "Cry all you want, but stop throwing my things around and breaking them."

* * *

He's morose for days, crying and, like always, I soothe him the best way I know.

* * *

The years go by as we become accustomed to our new lives.

* * *

Sherlock has become much more the diplomat, his conduct having been tempered by John. He's learned how his deductions of people can hurt them and reserves his statements.

* * *

We've been together for eight years when I feel the presence of Sherlock by my side in my bed at night.

          "What's wrong?" in a groggy voice, turning to face him. 

          "Wanted to be close to you."

He cannot see the smile on my face, the moon is only a sliver, and the blinds drawn against the night lights.  
We tuck in together; a small sigh escapes my lips.

* * *

The morning brings me awake with small kisses on my cheek, and a hand closing on mine. Turning to face Sherlock his hand rests on my cheek, he finds my lips with his. I don't question, and more importantly, I don't pull away. His compact body presses, his lips at first chaste, tender, tasting. The burning need takes over, both of us becoming fervent, demanding, our tongues clashing.

* * *

The morning wears on as we explore each other's bodies, different from years ago, with slow, gentle intimacies, carefully re-learning. As John did for Sherlock and Peter did for me.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This re-write took weeks to do. I'm learning to take my time, re-read and re-read. Writing has become a passion for me and I'm learning that my style is my style. Not to copy anyone elses.  
> There are fluffy fics I've written also.  
> Again, please leave kudos to boost my ego. And read more of my fics if you liked this one.

**Author's Note:**

> There is a quote near the very end of chapter five that comes from the BBC show. It is Christmas at the Holmes house and John forgives Mary with this saying.  
> I love to be acknowledged. If you like please leave kudos and read more of my fics.


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